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TO 

THE  ADMIRERS 

OF 

AND  OF   THE   OTHER   ILLUSTRIOUS   SPIRITS  OF 
THE  GOLDEN  AGE  OF  ENGLAND, 

THESE  VOLUMES, 

WITH    TRUE    HUMBLENESS, 

AKD   ENTIRE    DEVOTEDNESS   TO   THE    SUB'^iOT, 

ARE    RESPECTFULLY    INSCRIBED, 

BY 

THEIR   FELLOW-WORSmPPER, 

AND  VERY  OBEDIENT  SERVANT, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


M«9f>??9 


PREFACE, 

ADDBESSED   BY    THE   AUTHOR,    WITH  A    SUITABLE    PROPER    RESPECT  IN   HIM,  TO 
ms   SINGULAR   GOOD    FRIEND, 

THE   COURTEOUS   READER. 


Methinks  an  apology  is  necessary  for  adventuring  on  a  subject  of  the  ex- 
treme difficulty  essayed  in  these  volumes ;  but  the  cause  of  my  entering  on  so 
notable  ambitious  a  task,  will  perhaps  hold  me  excused  in  some  measure  ;  for 
this  was  it :  I  had  noted  with  exceeding  sorrowfulness,  and  a  becoming  indigna- 
lion,  divers  small  biographers,  muddle-headed  commentators,  and  insolent  cy- 
clopaedia scribblers,  with  as  scarce  a  commodity  of  ti'uth  as  of  wit,  garnishing 
their  silly  conceits  of  the  noblest  heart  and  brain  that  ever  labored  for  universal 
humanity,  with  a  prodigal  store  of  all  manner  of  despicable  vileness,  and  wretched 
impudent  folly ;  and  having  had  much  deep  study,  and  moreover,  being  pos- 
sessed of  a  very  boundless  love  of  the  subject,  I  thought  I  would  strive,  as  far 
as  lay  within  the  compass  of  my  humble  ability,  to  put  to  shame  these  pitiful 
traducers,  and  set  up  before  the  world  a  statue  of  this  High  Priest  of  Nature,  as 
he  ought  to  be  entitled,  as  like  as  might  be  unto  the  wondrous  admirablenes  of 
his  natural  gifts. 

I  doubt  hugely  there  has  ever  been  a  writer  of  so  catholic  a  reputation  as  this 
so  slandered  character  ;  for,  as  I  firmly  believe,  it  is  scarce  possible  to  point  out 
any  one  part  of  the  huge  globe,  where  some  faint  whisper  of  him  hath  not  penetra- 
ted. On  thedesertest  rock,  in  the  savagest  country,  in  all  extremes  of  climate, 
and  among  the  goodliest  and  gloomiest  features  of  land  and  sea,  somewhat  of 
the  countless  great  heaps  of  comfort  he  hath  left  us,  hath  had  its  exquisite  sweet 
influence.  In  what  remote  wilderness  hath  the  missionary  set  up  his  dwelling, 
which  knovveth  not  in  his  lighter  hours,  the  cheerful  piety  of  his  matchless 
preaching  ?  Over  vvhich  inhospitable  towering  mountain  doth  the  traveller  seek 
a  path,  that  hath  not  heard,  to  beguile  the  way  of  its  weariness,  the  welcome 
remembrance  of  his  infinite  wit  ?  And  over  what  far  distant  ocean  hath  the 
sea-boy  strained  his  gaze,  that  never  caught  from  such  lofty  gallery  snatches  of 
the  inimitable  music  of  his  everlasting  tuneful  verse  ?  There  are  no  such  places. 
He  hath  adventured  wide  and  far  ;  and  his  stream  of  purest  English  hath  flowed 
from  the  gentle  Avon  through  every  monstrous  sea  that  dasheth  its  violent, 
fierce  billows  against  the  walls  of  the  globe  ;  and  it  is  drunk  with  a  like  delicate 
rare  freshness  as  its  humble  source,  on  the  banks  of  the  gigantic  Miss  issipi,  the 
mighty  Ganges,  and  on  those  of  their  in  good  time,  as  glorious  rival,  the  Darling. 

Amongst  the  living,  there  existeth  no  sign  of  any  such  greatness.  Every 
succeeding  generation  it  seemeth  to  increase,  whilst  such  examples  as  had  un- 


▼1  PREFACE. 

disputed  supremacy  before  it  made  itself  manifest,  have  since  wrapped  their 
antique  cloaks  about  them,  and  been  content  with  humbler  places.  The  shades 
of  Sophocles,  iEschylus,  Euripides,  Meiiander,  and  Aristophanes,  are  stirred 
from  their  long  deep  lethargy  by  wondrous  memorials  of  the  wood-stapler's  son 
of  Stratford  uttered  within  the  ruin  which  was  once  their  "  Globe,"  by  some  ad- 
venturous tourist  from  an  island  that  never  had  name  or  existence  in  their  mem- 
ories ;  and  so  their  masters  in  arms  yet  pupils  in  learning,  the  haughty  Romans, 
rise  from  their  desolate  theatres  marvelling  exceedingly  to  hear  there  proclaimed 
in  all  that  appertaineth  to  excellence  in  the  writing  of  Tragedy  and  Comedy  the 
undisputable  omnipotence  of  a  Briton. 

Thus,  in  his  national  proper  apparelling,  goeth  he  so  famously  abroad,  but  in 
a  foreign  dress  he  is  scarce  less  reverenced,  for  the  principal  nations  of  Europe 
have  strove  to  make  his  excellence  as  familiar  with  them  as  was  possible,  and 
have  turned  his  English  into  as  eloquent  language  of  their  own  as  they  had  at 
their  commandment.  By  these  means,  the  Spaniard,  the  Italian,  the  French- 
man, and  the  German,  have  got  him  into  their  friendly  acquaintance.  But  of 
these  only  the  Germans  can  be  said  either  to  know  him  thoroughly,  or  appre- 
ciate him  with  a  proper  affection.  These  excellent  worthy  persons  do  love  him 
with  all  their  hearts,  study  him  so  intently,  they  will  not  let  the  slightest  of  his 
manifold  graces  to  escape  without  the  full  measure  of  admiration  it  meriteth,  and 
do  so  much  make  of  him  the  general  talk,  as  though  all  Germany  were  but 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  and  her  sole  glory  no  other  than  William  Shakspeare.  I 
have  ventured  to  style  him  the  High  Priest  of  Nature,  and  truly  not  without 
proper  warrant.  He  is  the  cliief  interpreter  of  her  mysteries,  and  the  sovereign 
pontiff  of  her  universal  church,  wherever  the  beautiful  is  felt  or  the  intellectual 
understood  ;  and  Nature,  who  gave  unto  him  his  surpassing  attributes,  receiveth 
back,  in  a  myriad  of  exhaustless  channels,  as  I  have  insufficiently  noted,  the  di- 
Tine  excellence  that  came  of  her  giving.  Since  he  hath  ministered  at  her  altar 
there  hath  been  no  schism  as  to  her  doctrine,  nor  sign  of  dispute  of  her  authority  ; 
for  he  so  put  her  religion  into  language  and  action,  that  wherever  there  is  en- 
lightened humanity,  there  must  ever  remain  the  most  earnest,  loving,  deep-hearted 
devotedness.  In  this  capacity  it  is  as  utter  foolishness  to  attempt  drawing  up  an 
inventory  of  the  riches  hoarded  in  the  treasuries  of  the  deep,  as  to  seek  to  parti- 
cularize, with  any  thing  nigh  unto  faithfulness,  the  prodigal  amount  of  good  he 
hath  caused  to  be  distributed  to  mankind.  As  a  benefactor,  'tis  vain  to  look 
for  his  peer  ;  as  a  philanthrophist,  no  one  hath  lived  with  such  profit  to  his  fellows. 
The  legacy  which  he  left  in  trust  to  Time,  for  the  universal  benefit,  hath  this 
peculiar  property,  that  the  more  of  it  is  disposed  of,  the  more  abundantly  will  it 
increase  ;  and  so  rapidly  doth  it  multiply  itself  as  it  getteth  to  be  spread  abroad, 
that  it  may,  without  any  color  of  exaggeration,  be  said,  it  is  a  benefaction  that 
must  embrace  all  space  and  all  eternity. 

Whilst  endeavoring  to  exhibit  something  that  approaches  to  the  true  charac- 
ter of  the  man,  I  have  also  sought  to  portray  the  principal  characteristics  of  the 
age  on  which  he  conferred  such  marvellous  honor.  Perchance  some  may  think 
that  these  volumes  are  worthy  only  of  that  sort  of  credit  a  mere  romance  can  look 
for  ;  but  let  them  be  assured,  there  is  more  of  history  in  these  pages  than  divers 
books  purporting  to  be  histories  can  boast  of,  and  whenever  they  hold  not  Truth 
by  the  iiand,  they  tread  as  nigh  upon  her  heels  as  may  be.  Mayhap  too,  others 
may  look  on  divers  passages,  savoring  in  no  slight  prominence  of  over-boldness 
in  the  writer,  but  in  very  truth,  it  is  nought  else  but  the  daring  which  love  in- 
spires, and  ought,  it  is  respectfully  urged,  in  no  case  to  be  considered  as  coming 
of  any  other  source.  Of  the  impcrfectness  of  the  elaborate  picture  I  have  es- 
sayed, I  am  as  conscious  as  any  person  that  breathes,  but  I  doubt  not  amongst 


PREFACE.  VU 

all  liberal  kind  hearts,  I  shall  find  such  charitable  constructions  put  on  my  de- 
ficiency,  as  may  induce  them  to  allow  that  the  performance,  humble  as  it  may 
be,  hath  not  been  altogether  unprofitable.  This  I  have  been  the  more  induced 
to  look  for,  from  the  generous  encouragement  afforded  to  "  Shakspeare  and  his 
Friends,"  by  such  critics  and  scholarly  persons  who  have  taken  it  in  hand,  who 
both  publicly  and  privately  have  bestowed  on  it  their  commendation  with  such 
exceeding  bounteousness  as  I  had  not  dared  to  expect.  That  the  praise  so  gen- 
erally given,  applied  much  more  to  the  subject  than  its  treatment,  I  cannot  help 
but  believe  ;  but  let  that  be  as  it  may,  I  will  ever  seek  what  means  I  have 
at  my  disposal,  to  prove  how  earnestly  I  strive  for  the  desert  in  which  it 
ought  to  have  originated. 

Doubtless,  it  would  be  but  fitting  of  me  here,  to  make  some  apology  for  pub- 
lishing these  works  out  of  their  proper  order,  as  the  present  should  have  prece- 
ded its  predecessor ;  but  methinks  I  cannot  do  better  than  leave  the  fault  to  be 
dealt  with  by  the  reader  as  he  shall  think  fittest — hope  it  may  be  found  a  mat- 
ter of  such  heinousness  as  to  deprive  the  offender  of  some  excusing,  particularly 
as  each  is  a  distinct  work  ;  complete  in  itself.  If  there  exist  no  other  objec- 
tion, I  doubt  not,  despite  their  irregular  starting,  they  will  now  run  their  race 
together  as  fairly  and  as  gallantly  withal  as  can  be  expected  of  them. 

There  hath  been  some  stir  lately  made  concerning  of  the  orthography  of  the  ever 
honored  name  of  our  "  Sweet  Swan  of  Avon."  On  that  point,  it  is  only  neces- 
sary here  to  say  that  it  was  customary  with  divers  notable  persons  of  the  age  of 
Elizabeth,  to  write  their  names  in  more  than  one  form,  just  as  it  took  thoir  fan- 
tasy, proof  of  which  will  be  discovered  in  the  lettersof  the  time,  wherein  Raleigh 
sometimes  signeth  himself  "  Rawley,"  Lord  Burleigh  hath  some  three  or  four 
ways  of  spelling  his  name,  and  others  do  the  like  sort  of  thing;  therefore,  to 
find  a  variation  in  the  autographs  of  the  illustrious  Shakspeare  is  in  no  manner 
strange.  The  orthography  here  adhered  to,  hath  the  recommendation  of  being 
that  which  the  great  Bard  employed  in  the  latter  period  of  his  life,  when  it  is 
supposed  he  must  have  settled  it  to  his  liking  ;  is  moreover  the  same  that  was 
used  by  the  choicest  of  his  friends,  who  doubtless,  had  the  best  means  of  know- 
ing his  humor  in  it,  and  hath  been  made  familiar  to  us,  in  consequence  of  its 
adoption  by  the  most  learned  of  his  editors,  critics,  and  scholars  in  this,  and  in 
all  other  countries,  who  so  it  is  presumed,  ought  to  be  the  properest  guides  to 
follow  in  such  a  matter. 


sism  igssiof  Bjwai  ^isns  swm 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

All  was  this  Land  ful  filled  of  Faerie, 
The  Elf-Quene  with  hire  jolie  company 
Daunsed  full  oft  in  many  a  grene  raede, 
This  was  the  old  opinion,  as  I  rede. 

Chattcer. 
The  rallies  rang  with  their  delicious  strains, 
And  pleasure  reveled  on  those  happy  plains. 
Chalkiull. 
What  if  my  lordinge  doo  chaunce  for  to  miss  me? 
The  worst  that  can  happen  his  cudgel  will  kiss 
nie. 
Tk.\gicall  Comedye  of  Apics  akd  Virginia. 

Oh  !  what  a  beauteous  night  was  that 
time-honored  twenty-third  of  April,  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand  five  liundred 
and  sixty-four  !  The  air  was  clear  as  any 
crystal,  and  the  wind  just  shaking  the  fra- 
grance from  the  young  blossoms,  as  it 
swept  along  to  make  music  in  the  fresh 
leaves  of  the  tall  trees,  did  create  such  har- 
mony and  sweetness  therein,  that  nothing 
could  have  appeared  so  delectable,  save  the 
star-bestudded  sky  above,  wherein  the  lady 
moon  was  seen  to  glide  with  so  silvery  a 
brightness  that  the  sapphire  heavens,  the 
llowery  earth,  and  the  sparkling  water, 
were  appareled  in  one  mantle  of  the  deli- 
catest  light.  Peradventure  so  fair  a  night 
hath  never  been  seen  before  or  since  ;  yet, 
of  such  bountiful  beauty  as  it  was  through- 
out, there  was  one  spot  wherein  its  ex- 
quisite rare  attractions  were  heaped  to- 
gether with  so  prodigal  a  hand,  that  the 
place,  for  the  exceeding  pleasantness  of 
its  aspect,  must  have  been  like  unto  that 


famous  garden  of  Paradise,  that  held  onr 
first  parents  in  their  primitiive  innocency 
and  happiness. 

It  was  a  low  meadow  field,  marked  by 
sundry  declsvities  and  inequalities,  where- 
on a  goodly  show  of  all  maiiner  of  spring 
flowers  were  sleeping  in  the  moonlight, 
even  to  the  very  waves  of  that  right  famous 
river  the  Avon,  which  was  flowing  along 
in  all  its  refreshing  loveliness,  at  its  margin. 
Trees  were  here  and  there  of  divers  kinds, 
garmented  in  their  newest  livery  of  green ; 
a  row  of  alders,  a  clump  of  beeches,  a  soli- 
tary oak,  a  shady  coppice,  were  stretching 
far  and  wide  in  one  direction  ;  and  hedges 
of  hawthorn  and  elder,  interspersed  with 
crab,  wild  plum,  and  towering  elms,  would 
intersect  the  country  in  others.  Close  at 
hand  was  the  town  of  Stratford,  with  the 
tall  spire  of  the  church,  and  the  quaint 
eaves  of  the  houses  distinctiv  visible.  Here 
stood  the  mansion  of  one  of  its  persons  of 
wor?hip.  There  the  more  modest  dwelling 
of  an  industrious  yeoman.  At  one  place 
was  the  cottage  of  the  sturdy  laborer  ;  in 
anotlier  the  tenement  of  the  honest  miller  ; 
whifst,  as  the  eye  stretched  out  to  the  dis- 
tance, other  buildings  might  be  faiutly  seen 
which  douUless  marked  the  situation  of  the 
neighboring  villages. 

But,  although  signs  of  habitation  were 
thus  plentiful,  of  man  or  woman  not  one 
was  there  in  sight ;  for  tliis  especial  reason, 
all  manner  of  honest  folk  had  laid  them 
down  to  sleep  long  since.  Little  could  be 
seen  of  live  things,  excepting  perchance  a 
water-rat  swimming  upon  the  Avon,  or 
mayhap,  a  fold  of  sheep  on  the   adjoining 


10 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


farm  ;  cr  heard,  save  the  tinkle  of  the 
sheep-bells,  or  the  bark  of  the  shepherd's 
dog,  occasionally  responded  to  by  some  dog 
afar  oft";  or  the  rushing  of  the  water  at  tiie 
mill-wheel,  or  the  croaking  of  the  frogs 
among  the  rushes,  or  the  hooting  of  an  owl 
as  she  passed  by,  intent  on  a  mousing  expe- 
dition to  tlie  nearest  barn ;  and  these  sounds 
made  as  excellent  sweet  music  as  ever 
poet  did  delight  to  hear.  Certes  this  was 
just  such  a  scene,  and  these  the  very  pro- 
perest  accompaniments  for  awakening  in 
the  heart  that  profound  sympathy  with  na- 
ture which  the  few  to  whom  such  feeling 
is  familiar  give  expression  to,  in  sentiments 
that  partake  of  the  same  beauty  and  immor- 
tality as  the  source  whence  they  spring. 
All  at  once  a  new  and  unfamiliar  sound 
came  floating  upon  the  air.  It  was  faint 
and  indistinct,  a  mere  murmur  ;  yet  music- 
ally soft  and  low.  Gradually  it  grew  upon 
the  ear,  as  a  blossom  opening  to  the  sun- 
shine. A  gentle  hannony  became  distin- 
guishable ;  then  came  tones  of  such  ex- 
quisite melodiousness,  it  was  ravishing  to 
listen  to  tiiem.  At  last  vuices,  seeming 
in  some  number,  were  readily  heard,  and 
then,  words  becoming  audible,  they  were  at 
last  distinctly  repeated  in  the  following 
order : 

"  We  come  from  the  violet's  azure  cells, 
We  come  from  the  cowslip's  golden  bells, 
From  the  hawthorn's  odorous  bloom  we  fly  ; 
From  the  dewy  eaves 
Of  the  primrose  leaves. 
From  the  daisy's  blushing  buds  we  hie  ; 
And  fill  the  air  with  sounds  and  sights 

As  though  to  earth  all  heaven  was  streaming, 
More  sweet  than  lover's  stolen  delights. 

More  bright  than  aught  loved  maid  is  dream- 
ing. 
We  come  from  the  snowdrop's  pallid  head. 
We  come  from  the  heather's  lowly  bed, 
From  the  wild  bee's  haunt  and  the  wood-lark's 
home  ; 

From  the  grassy  couch 
Where  the  lev'rets  crouch. 
And  the  coney  hides  ; — we  come  !  we  come  !" 

Whilst  this  roundelay  was  being  sung, 
there  appeared  moving  in  the  atmosphere, 
all  manner  of  bright  colors,  like  unto  a 
goodly  rainbow  in  the  heavens,  or  a  shower 
of  all  the  delicatest  flowers  upon  the  earth, 
and  presently  forms  could  be  distinctly 
traced  amongst  them  ;  and  as  they  ap- 
proached the  hanks  of  the  river,  it  was  seen 
that  they  were  crowds  of  tiny  beings,  of 
shape  as  beautifid  as  ever  the  eye  looked 
on;  garmented  very  daintily  in  what  seem- 
ed to  be  blossoms  ot  divers  kinds  and  colors. 
Their  coin|)l('xions  were  marvelous  fair; 
their  hair  of  a  bright  golden   hue,  curling 


very  prettily,  decorated  with  exceeding 
small  wreaths,  or,  mayhap,  a  dainty  sweet 
flower  worn  as  a  helmet ;  and  they  floated 
on  the  air  with  infinite  ease  in  every  possi- 
ble position  ;  some  plunging  head  down- 
wards ;  and  others,  as  it  were,  reclining 
backwards,  looking  to  observe  who  came 
after  them.  On  they  came,  as  countless  as 
the  stars ;  and  in  the  centre  was  one,  round 
whom  the  rest  were  thronging  with  a  won- 
derful show  of  love  and  reverence ;  and  she 
reclined  in  a  car,  carved  of  pearl  that  seem- 
to  be  as  light  as  a  gossamer,  was  shaped 
like  a  shell,  and  drawn  by  two  bright-wing- 
ed butterflies.  Her  face  was  as  lovely  as 
the  morning  light,  and  on  her  brows  she 
wore  a  coronal  of  jasmine  studded  with 
fresh  dew  drops.  A  scarf  of  rosevcolor  ot 
a  singular  fine  fabric,  the  material  whereot 
had  doubtless  been  stolen  from  the  silk- 
worm's web,  was  tied  from  the  shoulder  to 
the  hip,  where  it  was  fastened  in  a  bow 
over  a  close  vest  of  a  sapphire  hue,  richly 
ornamented  with  gold  leaves  ;  and  the  rest 
of  her  appareling  was  of  the  like  pretty  fan- 
tasy. Scarcely  had  this  e.xquisite  fair  crea- 
ture and  her  companions  alighted  on  the 
enameled  banks  of  the  river,  and  the  voices 
had  become  hushed  into  an  indistinct  mur- 
mur of  pleasure  at  finding  themselves  at 
their  journey's  end,  when  the  air  was  again 
filled  with  the  same  wondrous  harmonies 
and  delicate  words,  that  had  there  been  cre- 
ated so  recently  ;  but  the  voices  now  were 
of  a  deeper  tone. 

Presently  there  appeared,  hovering  about, 
a  vast  crowd  of  similar  little  beings  as 
those  that  had  a  moment  since  alighted  on 
the  ground,  only  these  were  of  a  more  mas- 
culine aspect,  and  garmented  in  hose  and 
doublet,  fitting  tight  to  the  body,  of  divers 
delicate  colors,  wearing  famous  pretty 
feathers  in  their  caps,  mayhap  filched  from 
the  small  birds  ;  and  some  had  quivers  of 
arrows  at  their  backs.  Some  wore  a  smart 
rapier,  of  at  least  the  length  of  a  tailor's 
needle  ;  and  many  carried  spears  of  a  mar- 
velous fine  point  and  thinness.  These 
were  floating  on  the  air  in  all  manner  of 
picturesque  attitudes,  save  one  who  sat  in 
a  fair  car  of  gold,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  gi- 
gantic dragon-flies,  attended  by  a  company 
who  appeared  to  act  as  a  guard  of  honor. 
He  wore  a  crown  on  his  head,  and  a  rapier 
at  his  side,  and  a  purple  robe  of  fine  velvet, 
richly  embroidered  with  stars,  over  his  vest. 
Perpetual  youth  sat  smiling  on  his  counte- 
nance, and  his  limbs  were  of  so  graceful  a 
shape,  my  poor  words  iiave  not  the  oinninff 
to  describe  it.  As  this  assembly  descendeu 
to  join  the  other,  a  chorus  of  mutual  con- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


11 


gratulation  arose,  whereof  the  burthen  of 
the  sylphs  was,  "  Hail  Oberon  !"  and  that 
of  the  others,  "  Hail  Titania  !" — showing 
that  those  two  were  the  king  and  queen  of 
fairie, — which  seemed  to  be  sung  with  such 
wonderful  joy  and  so  sweet  a  spirit,  that  it 
was  exquisite  to  hear  beyond  all  conceiv- 
ing. 

King  Oberon  having  stepped  from  his 
car,  advanced  to  that  of  his  queen  close  by, 
and  with  a  very  excellent  courtesy,  did 
hand  the  fair  Titania  out,  perchance  to 
tread  a  measure  on  the  verdant  mead ; 
whereupon  their  discourse  ran  thus  : 

"  Light  of  my  life,  and  life  of  all  my  joy  !" 
rapturously  exclaimed  the  fairy  king. 
"  In  whose  fair  eyes,  the  fountains  of  my  bliss, 
My  soul  drinks    sweeter   and   more    delicate 

draughts 
Than  flowers  or  fruits  provide  ;  say  with  what 

aim, 
For  well  I  know  some  hidden  purpose  lies 
Within  the  covert  of  thy  fantasy, 
Have  1  been  summoned  with  my  company 
From  the  deep  dingle  in  the  emerald  wood. 
Where,  'mid  the  tangled    roots  and   gnarled 

boughs 
Of  reverential  oaks  and  hoary  pines, 
With  our  rude  mirth  we  rouse  the  dappled  deer 
Or  chase  the  owlets  to  their  dark  retreats." 
"  And  what  wouldst  give  to  know  1" 
asked  Titania,  with  a  pretty  seriousness. 

"  What  give,  sweetheart  ]"  replied  he. 
"  How  like  a  very  woman  art  thou  grown  ! 
Thou  hast  some  pretty  meaning  in  the  act. 
Some   quaint  device,  mayhap  some    harmless 

jest, 
Whereby  the  rosy  hollows  of  thy  cheek 
Shall  be  arrayed  with  all  thy  fairest  smiles, 
To  bear  glad  witness  how  man's  wiser  mind 
Can  by  a  woman's  wit  be  set  at  nought. 
And  for  the  secret  thou'lt  a  bargain  make. 
Which  having  ratified,  the  secret's  told  ; 
And  in  its  nothingness  must  lie  the  jest. 
And  in  its  point  thy  triumph." 

"  Tush,  my  lord  !" 
cried  his  fair  companion,  half  turning  from  him. 
"  Art  thou  so  little  curious  as  this  ? 
Nay,  by  the   trembling  beam  that  leaves   the 

skies 
To  steal  soft  kisses  from  the  yielding  wave, 
I'll  hie  me  hence  and  tell  thee  not  at  all.'' 
"  In  pity  say  not  so  !"  said  he. 

"  I'll  say  and  do  !" 
answered  the  other  with  a  famous  show  of  re- 
solution. 
"  Seem'st  thou  not  more  inclined  to  learn   the 

drift 
Of  why  on  such  a  night  of  all  the  year, 
I  bade  thee  hasten  to  this  favored  spot." 

"  Then   ami  curious  to  such   excess,"   ob- 
served her  lord, 
"  As  passeth  all  conceiving.     I  prithee  say 
What  was  thy  purpose.     Tell  it  straight. 


For  my  impatience  is  so  powerful 
As  will  endure  no  hindrance." 

"  O'  my  word  I"  cried  Titania, 
"  Thy  nature  grows  impatient  of  a  sudden. 
Fie  on  thee,  my  lord  !  Dost  mock  me  so  ! 
With  such  conceits  dost  think  a  woman  caught 
Who  for  a  curious  humor  hath  been  famed, 
And  therefore  knoweth  how  it  shows  itself? 
Hadst  thou  a  secret,  I  would  never  rest 
A  minute,  nay,  a  moment  of  the  hour, 
Till  I  became  its  mistress.     I  would  watch 
All  fittest  opportunities  to  ply 
The  searchingest  questions  ever  spoke  ; 
And  at  thy  rising  and  thy  lying  down. 
The  hunt,  the  walk,  the  banquet  or  the  dance  ; 
In  brief,  in  every  time  and  ev'ry  place, 
I'd  importune  thee  with  such  earnestness. 
And  in  a  way  so  lovingly  withal. 
Thou    couldst  not  hold   it   from   me   if  thou 

wouldst ; 
Or  shouldst  thou  still  attempt  to  keep  it  hid. 
Then  would  I  venture  close  to  where  it  hides, 
And  with  sweet  force  dislodge  it  from  thy  lips." 
"  Then  thus  such  sweet   enforcement  I  em- 
ploy." 

Thereupon  his  elfin  majesty  very  gallant- 
ly did  salute  his  lovely  queen,  the  which 
she  received  as  if  in  no  way  inclined  to  an- 
ger, as  may  be  supposed  ;  and  then  they, 
saying  manifold  loving  pleasantries  unto 
each  other,  walked  to  were  there  was  a 
banqueting  table,  set  out  for  them,  with  all 
manner  of  tempting  delicates,  and  sat  them- 
selves down,  each  in  a  sort  of  throne  ;  for 
the  reader  must  be  made  aware,  that  whilst 
the  king  and  queen  of  Fairie  were  convers- 
ing as  hath  been  described,  there  were 
raised  upon  the  green  sward  by  their  attend- 
ants, a  royal  canopy  of  crimson  silk  and 
gold,  and  a  goodly  display  of  most  delecta- 
ble cheer ;  and  hundreds  of  the  little  people 
were  running  about  putting  the  things  in 
order,  whilst  groups  of  beautiful  sylphs 
were  receiving  notable  sweet  courtesies 
from  tueir  elfin  gallants  ;  some  reclining 
their  graceful  figures  on  the  delicate  grass, 
and  others  standing  up  as  if  preparing  for 
the  dance ;  and  in  another  place,  there 
were  seen  a  score  or  so  of  musicians,  a 
tuning  of  their  records,  theorbos,  citterns, 
harps,  sackbutt,  and  the  like  choice  instru- 
ments. Presently  the  queen  gave  the  sign 
for  them  to  begin  their  revels,  and  then  the 
music  struck  up  a  most  ravishing  minstrel- 
sy ;  the  dancers  commenced  treading  a 
measure  with  such  infinite  grace  as  hath 
never  been  visible  to  mortal  eyes,  and  the 
rest  were  disporting  of  themselves  in  all 
parts  of  the  meadow,  laughing,  jesting, 
feasting  and  making  merry  with  such  a 
prodigality  of  happiness  as  dull  mortality 
hath  no  knowledge  of.     Some  were  a  hunt- 


n 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


ing  of  the  field-mice  into  their  holes,  or 
.  driving  the  leaping  frogs  into  the  river,  with 
a  famous  hallooing  and  admirable  cheerful 
noise  ;  others  of  the  merry  elves  were  amu- 
sing of  themselves  by  jumping  over  the 
toadstools  that  grew  thereabouts,  and  may- 
hap one,  not  being  so  good  a  leaper  as  his 
fellows,  would  jump  clean  into  one  of  these 
dry  fungous  plants,  to  the  near  smothering 
of  himself  in  its  dust,  and  choking  of  his 
companions  with  laughter.  Then  some  of 
tiie  sylphs,  who  were  not  of  the  dancers, 
were  engaged  in  making  wreaths  of  the 
delicatest  blossoms  in  season,  either  for 
those  they  affected  of  the  other  sex,  or  for 
their  own  wear.  Others  were  putting  to- 
gather  a  true-love  posie.  Here  and  there 
might  be  seen  a  couple,  apart  from  the  rest, 
by  the  exquisite  earnestness  of  their  coun- 
tenances, declaring  themselves  to  be  em- 
ployed in  such  delectable  manner  as  showed 
there  was  no  lack  of  affectionateness  be- 
twixt them  ;  and  a  company  of  others  had 
got  in  tlie  midst  of  them  an  elf  of  a  most 
jocinid  spirit,  known  to  divers  by  the  sever- 
al names  of  Puck,  Robin  Goodfellovv,  and 
Will-o'-the-Wisp,  who,  as  was  evident  from 
their  faces,  with  his  droll  jests  and  diverting 
tricks,  kept  them  in  a  constant  humor  of 
laughing.  Here  would  be  one  mischievous 
elf  running  after  a  sylph  with  a  huge  worm,  j 
which  it  was  manifest  she  liked  not  the  i 
looks  of;  and  there  another  pelting  a 
companion  with  cowslips,  who  was  making 
ready  to  fling  at  him  with  a  like  missile. 
Everywhere  there  was  the  appearance  of 
the  very  absolutest  free-heartedness  ;  not  a 
grave  fare  was  to  be  seen,  not  a  sigh  was 
to  be  heard. 

Now  there  were  seen  amongst  them  such 
abundance  of  pleasant  pastime,  as  was  quite 
a  marvel  to  behold,  in  the  which  the  tricksy 
Will-o-the-Wisp,  or  Puck,  or  Robin  Good- 
fellow,  as  he  was  variously  called,  did  ap- 
pear to  enjoy  himself  to  the  very  bent  of  his 
humor.  In  the  meanwhile  Titania  and 
Oberon  moved  from  the  banquet,  and  were 
soon  pleasantly  engaged  treading  of  a 
measure  to  the  delicatest  music  ever  known. 
All  of  a  sudden  as  they  were  disporting  of 
themselves,  every  one  of  them  very  merrily, 
there  came  one  hastening  from  the  other 
end  of  the  meadow,  crying  out  something, 
the  which  as  soon  as  it  was  heard,  l)anquet, 
canopy,  dancers,  musicians,  and  all  Uiv.  fairy 
world  disappeared  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  and  of  that  gallant  company  no  vestige 
now  reiuained.  The  blades  of  the  young 
grass,  unharmed  by  tiio  light  footfalls  of  the 
tiny  dancers,  bent  to  the  niidniglit  wind. 
The  frogs  came  peeping  from  the  rushes. 


I  and  the  timid  water-rat  ventured  to  put  her 
;  head  out  of  the  covered  hole  beneath  the 
j  river's  bank,  wherein  she  had  made  her 
j  home. 

!      "  It  be  woundy  cold  o'  nights,  still  dame, 

j  for  all  it  be  getting  so  nigh  unto  the  flowery 

1  month  of  May,"  exclaimed  an  awkward  var- 

•  let,  looking  to  be  something  betwixt  man 

and  boy,  and  dressed  in  a  humble  suit  of 

russet,  famously  worn  and  soiled,  that  fitted 

him  not  at  all,  as,  carrying  of  a  huge  lan- 

i  thorn  with  an  outstretched  arm  before  him, 

he  seemed  to  be  guiding  of  a  short  stout 

woman,  well   wrapped  up  in  a  serviceable 

cloak    and    mufller,   who    bent    her    steps 

through  the  field  towards  the  neighboring 

town. 

"  Ay,  it  be  cold  enough,  out  of  all  doubt," 
replied  his  companion,  in  a  quick  thick 
voice,  half  swallowed  in  her  mutfler,  as  she 
endeavored  to  keep  as  near  as  possible  to 
his  heels.  "  Yet  do  I  remember  me  a  colder 
night  than  this,  two  years  ago  this  very 
day." 

"  Odd  zooks  !  was  it  so  indeed  ?"  asked 
the  other  in  a  tone  of  monstrous  won- 
dering. 

"  Ay,  that  was  it,  Humphrey,"  replied  the 
woman  with  impressive  earnestness.  "That 
night  I  had  laid  me  down  to  rest  my  weary 
bones,  and  nigh  unto  midnight  I  had  got  me 
into  the  comlbrtablest  slumber  weary  body 
ever  had,  when  there  came  at  the  gate  so 
huge  a  noise,  I  had  like  to  have  been  fright- 
ened out  of  my  sleep  and  my  wits  too.  I 
dressed  me  in  a  presently,  wondering  who 
could  be  a  sending  at  that  time,  not  expect- 
ing to  hear  from  Mistress  Hathaway,  for  a 
month  to  come,  nor  from  Dame  Hart,  for  a 
full  week  ;  when  looking  out  from  the  lattice 
I  spied  a  horseman,  in  a  cloak  that  swept 
down  close  upon  his  horse's  heels,  who,  in  a 
terrible  high  voice,  bade  me  come  quick,  for 
life  and  death  depended  on  my  speed. 
Thereupon,  as  may  be  suppposed  of  me,  I 
made  all  convenient  haste  in  my  appareling 
— for  thou  knowest,  Humphrey,  I  like  to 
keep  none  waiting." 

"  O  my  life.  Gammer  Lambswool,''  e-x- 
claimed  the  other  drily,  "kept  you  not 
me  an  hour  by  the  clock,  ere  I  got  sight  of 
you,  I  know  not  what  waiting  means." 

"  Nay,  nay, — thou  couldst  not  have  been 
at  the  gate  so  long  as  that,"  replied  the  old 
woman  ;  "  for  ere  thou  hadst  well  knocked 
twice,  I  called  to  thee  from  the  lattice." 

"So  God  me  save,"  cried  out  Humphrey, 
with  wonderful  emphasis,"  1  knocked  some 
scores  of  times — to  say  nought  of  the  mon- 
strous bawling  I  kept  up,  loud  enough  to 
wake  the  seven  sleepers  :  and  I  doubt  not 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


13 


at  all,  master  will  give  me  a  taste  of  the 
cudgel  for  having  tarried  so  long." 

"  He  shall  do  thee  no  such  unkind  office, 
be  assured,"  said  Gammer  Lambswool, 
"  for  I  will  take  care  to  bear  thee  blameless 
in  the  matter.  But  to  return  to  what  I  was 
a  saying,"  added  she,  too  glad  at  having  a 
listener,  to  let  him  off  without  the  whole  story. 
"  On  coming  to  the  gate,  the  stranger  was 
for  having  me  mount  upon  a  pillion  behind 
him,  which  I  liked  not  at  first :  but  upon 
his  pressing  the  emergency  of  the  case, 
and  placing  a  gold  piece  in  my  hand,  I 
made  no  more  to  do — for  I  like  not  appear- 
ing over  scrupulous  in  matters  of  jeopardy, 
the  more  especially  when  an  honest  wager 
is  to  be  gained  by  it.  I  had  scarce  got  my 
seat  when  the  stranger  said  he  must  needs 
blind-fold  me,  the  which  I  liked  less  than 
the  other ;  but  upon  his  assuring  me  I 
should  suffer  no  harm,  and  placing  another 
gold  piece  in  my  hand,  I  suffered  it  to  be 
done,  for  thinks  I,  mayhap,  the  occasion  re- 
quireth  secresy  ;  and  I  oft  had  a  huge  sus- 
picion there  was  no  necessity  for  me  to 
seem  to  know  more  than  those  who  required 
my  aid,  would  allow  ;  if  so  be  they  paid  me 
well  for  holding  of  my  curiousness." 

"  Here  be  a  villainous  thick  cloud  about 
to  cover  up  the  moon,  and  be  hanged  to 
it !"  exclaimed  her  companion  in  a  tone  of 
vexation,  as,  with  a  face  waxing  marvelous- 
ly  fearful,  he  watched  the  approach  of  a 
broad  black  cloud  spreading  over  the  sky. 
"  Make  more  speed  I  pray  you,  good  Gam- 
mer, else  we  shall  be  left  in  the  dark  before 
we  have  got  out  of  this  field,  which  hath 
the  horridest  reputation  of  any  place  in 
these  parts  ;  and  I  like  not  passing  through 
it  at  this  late  hour,  I  promise  you." 

"  In  honest  truth  it  be  not  in  good  re- 
pute," observed  the  old  woman,  quickening 
her  pace  somewhat.  "  Unnatural  strange 
sights  have  been  seen  here,  and  it  be  well 
known  that  they  by  whom  they  have  been 
looked  on,  have  never  been  themselves 
since.  But  to  my  story.  Hardly  had  he 
blindfolded  me  when  he  spurred  his  horse  to 
so  monstrous  a  pace,  that  it  seemed  more 
like  unto  flying  than  riding ;  and,  not  having 
been  used  to  such,  perchance  I  should  soon 
have  been  jolted  from  my  seat,  had  not  I 
held  my  companion  round  the  girdle  as  firm 
as  a  vice.  Now  began  I  to  repent  of  my 
too  great  willingness  to  venture  on  this  er- 
rand. T  was  going  I  knew  not  where,  with 
I  knew  not  whom,  to  do  I  knew  not  what ; 
but  when  I  bethought  me  of  the  stranger's 
largess,  I  took  heart,  for  out  of  all  doubt  a 
piece  of  gold  is  a  notable  fine  recommenda- 
tion in  a  new  acquaintance  !  and  methinks 


it  be  ungrateful  to  think  ill  of  those  who 
have  behaved  handsomely  to  you  ;  so  I  said 
nought,  and  proceeded  on  my  journey  with 
as  much  contentation  as  I  might." 

"  A  grace  of  God,  Gammer,  make  more 
speed  .'"  cried  her  companion  earnestly. 

"  f  be  getting  on  as  fast  as  my  old  legs 
can  carry  me,"  answered  she ;  and  then 
continued  her  gossip.  "  Well,  we  travelled 
on  at  this  terrible  pace  for  I  know  not  how 
long  a  time,  till  tiie  horse  came  to  a  dead 
stop ;  and,  with  an  injunction  to  be  silent, 
my  companion  quickly  alighted,  carried  me 
some  little  distance  in  his  arms,  led  me  up 
some  steps,  and  then  leading  me  yet  a  little 
further,  suddenly  pulled  the  bandage  off  my 
eyes.  I  found  myself  in  a  very  stately 
chamber,  having  the  most  costly  hangings 
eye  ever  beheld,  and  everything  of  a  like 
splendor  about  it.  Lights  were  burning  on 
a  table  close  upon  the  bed's  foot,  but  1  had 
not  time  to  notice  one  half  of  what  was 
there,  when  my  conductor  haughtily  bade 
me  look  to  my  patient,  as  he  pointed  to  the 
bed;  and  hearing  a  most  piteous  groan,  I 
hastened  to  do  his  bidding." 

"  Mercy,  good  Gammer,  make  mere  speed ! 
These  clouds  be  close  upon  the  moon,  and 
we  not  half  through  tiiis  terrible  field  yet ;" 
cried  Humphrey,  evidently  more  attentive 
to  the  look  of  the  sky  than  tiie  speech  of 
his  companion. 

"  Marry,  'tis  so  sure  enough  !"  exclaimed 
the  old  dame,  taking  a  hasty  glance  at  the 
moon.  "  Well,  there  found  1  a  dainty  young 
creature,  assuredly  in  as  doleful  a  strait  as 
poor  lady  ever  was  ;  and  I  came  in  the  very 
nick  of  time,  to  do  her  such  desirable  ser- 
vice as  she  required  of  me.  I  sought  to 
give  her  what  comfort  I  could,  but  1  was 
stopped  by  the  voice  of  him  who  had  brought 
me,  angrily  bidding  me  hold  my  prate,  and 
speed  my  office  ;  and  then  broke  lie  out  into 
such  bitter  invectives  against  the  poor  lady, 
as  were  dreadful  to  hear,  to  the  which  she 
replied  never  a  word,  for  indeed  she  could 
not,  she  was  in  such  severe  travail.  At 
last,  to  my  great  joy,  the  lady  became  a 
mother ;  but  scarce  had  I  took  the  babe  in 
my  arms,  when  my  gentleman,  who  had 
been  all  this  time  striding  across  the  room, 
seemingly  in  a  bad  humor,  hearing  the  child 
cry,  darted  towards  me,  snatched  it  rudely 
away,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room  with  it. 
I  felt  at  that  moment  as  if  'twould  be  an 
easy  matter  to  knock  me  down  with  a 
feather.  I  could  have  no  doubt  there  was 
a  most  cruel  mischief  a-doing,  and  my  blood 
run  cold  within  me,  at  the  thought  of  it." 

"  There  !  the  moon  hath  gone  clean  out 
of  sight !"  exclaimed  Humphrey,  as  if  in 


14 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


titter  despair.    "  Alack,  what  an  unchristian 

Elace  for  an  honest  poor  body  to  be  in  at  this 
ite  hour." 
"  Well,  we  must  e'en  get  on  as  well  as 
we  can,  and  the  lanthorn  will  help  us  to 
make  sure  we  go  not  astray,"  observed  the 
other  consolingly. 

"  What  to  do  I  knew  not,"  continued 
she.  "  The  poor  mother  looked  to  be  scarce 
alive,  that  was  pitiful  enough  to  see,  let  her 
fault  have  been  what  it  might ;  but  taking 
away  the  life  of  an  innocent  babe  that  had 
scarce  began  to  breathe,  could  not  be  ought 
else  than  a  very  devilish  and  unnatural 
murder." 

"  Nay,  talk  not  of  murder  I  pray  you, 
good  Gammer  !"  cried  her  companion  very 
movingly  ;  "  I  cannot  see  the  length  of  my 
arm,  and  I  know  not  what  monstrous  fear- 
ful things  may  be  in  the  darkness,  ready  to 
pounce  out  upon  us." 

"  Nothing  unnatural  can  hurt  you  if  you 
be  not  evil  inclined,  let  them  here  lie  ever 
so  thick,"  observed  the  old  dame:  but  this 
seemed  not  to  add  much  to  the  other's  small 
stock  of  courage,  for  he  continued  to  walk 
along,  looking  suspiciously  about  him  in  as 
perfect  a  fear  as  ever  was,  whilst  Gammer 
Lambswool  strove  to  keep  as  close  at  his 
heels  as  she  could. 

"  Ere  1  could  recover  myself  from  the 
strange  fright,  what  had  been  that  moment 
done,  had  put  me  in,  he  returned,  and  with- 
out the  child,"  added  she  with  much  empha- 
sis. "  Whereupon  I  was  so  confounded 
and  terrified  at  the  sight  of  him,  that  I  re- 
member not  what  further  took  place,  till  I 
found  myself  at  mine  own  door  with  a  full 
purse  in  my  hand  ;  but  less  glad  at  the 
sight  of  it  than  I  was  to  be  quit  of  the  vil- 
lain's company." 

"  Mercy,  Gammer,  what  be  that !"  cried 
Humphrey,  in  a  monstrous  fearful  voice,  as 
he  lifted  up  his  lantern,  evidently  a  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot,  and  seemed  to  be 
gazing  at  something  in  the  distance. 

"  Where,  I  pray  you  !"  inquired  the  oth- 
er eagerly,  as  she  strove  to  raise  herself  on 
her  toes  for  to  peep  over  his  shoulder. 

"  It  moves  !"  whispered  her  companion, 
drawing  his  breath  hard. 

"  Heaven  save  us  from  all  harm !"  mut- 
tered the  old  woman,  beginning  to  partake 
of  the  other's  alarm,  though  she  knew  not 
as  yet  what  it  was  caused  by. 

"  By  St.  Nicholas,  it  be  making  towards 
lis !"  added  he  as  plainly  as  his  fright 
would  allow,  and  the  ne.\t  moment  tlic  lan- 
tern dropped  from  his  trembling  hands,  and 
he  fell  on  his  knees,  saying  of  his  jjrayors, 
with  his  teeth  a  chattering  as  if  he  was  taken 


with  an  ague.  Gammer  Lambswool,  being 
in  the  dark — for  their  light  had  been  extin- 
guished by  the  fall — and  hearing  something 
approaching,  was  about  to  take  to  her 
prayers  also,  when  she  was  startled  by  a 
quick  succession  of  blows,  that  seemed  to 
fall  upon  her  companion  with  a  force  that 
quickly  put  all  conceit  of  a  ghost  out  of  her 
head. 

"  Why,  thou  idling  varlet !"  exclaimed  a 
voice  close  beside  her.  "  Wert  not  strictly 
told  not  to  tarry  a  moment,  and  tlion  hast 
been  gone  nigh  these  two  hours  past — a 
murrain  on  thee." 

"  Oh,  master !"  bawled  Humphrey,  most 
lustily,  writhing  under  the  punishment  he 
was  receiving.  "  Hurt  me  no  more.  I  pray 
you.  Mercy,  good  master !  In  honest 
truth  I  tarried  no  more  than  I  could  help." 

"  Indeed,  Master  Shakspearc,  he  is  not  to 
blame,  for  I  was  hindered  from  coming," 
cried  the  old  woman.  "  But  tell  me,  I  be- 
seech you,  how  fareth  your  sweet  wife  ?" 

"  Badly,  as  she  needs  must,  when  she 
hath  been  crying  out  for  you  so  long,"  an- 
swered he,  as  if  somewhat  out  of  humor. 

"  Well,  dear  heart,  lead  you  the  way,  1 
will  haste  to  her  without  a  moment's  more 
delaying,' '  said  the  Gammer,  in  a  sort  of 
coaxing  voice ;  upon  which  Humphrey, 
picking  up  his  lantern,  and  quite  forgetting 
his  fear  in  the  cudgelling  he  had  lately  had, 
although,  in  honest  truth,  he  had  been 
scarce  hurt  at  all — seeing  his  master  and 
the  midwife  moving  off  as  fast  as  they 
could — kept  close  to  their  heels  till  they 
reached  John  Shakspcare's  dwelling  in 
Henley  Street. 


CHAPTER  II. 

At  first    THE    INFANT. 

Shakspeare. 
Porter.     On  my  Christian   conscience,  this 
one  christening  will  beget   a   thousand  ;  here 
will  be  father,  godfather,  and  all  together. 
31an.     The  spoons  will  be  the  bigger,  sir. 

Ibid. 
lie  ruleth  all  the  roast 
With  bragging  and  with  boast, 
Borne  up  on  every  side 
With  pomp  and  with  pride. 

.lon.v  Skelton. 

Now  there  was  an  admirable  jovial  com- 
pany assembled  at  the  dwelling  of  Dame 
Shakspearc,  to  do  honor  to  the  christening 
of  her  child,  and  among  then)  were  many 
of  the  worthy  burgesses  of  JStratford ;  for 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


15 


be  it  understood,  John  Shakspeare  was 
known  to  be  a  thriving  man,  and  such  are 
sure  to  have  no  lack  of  acquaintances  ;  and 
his  excellent  partner  having  come  of  a  family 
of  some  repute  in  those  parts,  being  no 
other  than  the  heiress  of  Arden,  was  much 
looked  up  to  ;  and,  as  she  appeared  unto  all, 
of  an  honest  kind  heart  and  admirable  sweet 
nature,  she  possessed  every  one's  good 
word ;  of  which  the  consequence  was,  the 
house  could  scarce  contain  the  company 
the  occasion  had  assembled.  Some  stood 
about  the  porch  jesting  and  making  merry ; 
others  were  in  the  garden,  especially  of  the 
younger  sort,  amusing  themselves  with 
pleasant  talk  one  with  another.  One  or 
two  decent  motherly  dames  were  in  the 
kitchen  bustling  to  and  fro,  looking  to  the 
dinner,  of  which  a  huge  tire  covered  with 
pots  and  kettles,  and  having  a  famous  large 
joint  at  the  spit,  a  little  ragged  urchin  kept 
turning — being  well  minded  of  all  not  to  let 
it  burn — showed  some  preparation — the 
whilst  a  stout  wench  with  famous  red 
cheeks  and  elbows,  evidently  in  her  best 
finery,  along  with  Humphrey,  in  his  Sunday 
jerkin,  kept  hurrying  in  and  out,  laden  with 
knives,  napery,  drinking  vessels,  trenches, 
and  other  needful  things  at  a  feasting. 

In  the  best  chamber  of  the  whole  house 
which  looked  to  be  newly  strewed  with 
fresh  rushes,  and  garnished  here  and  there 
with  such  flowers  as  were  in  season,  some 
in  china  bowls,  and  some  in  parcel-gilt 
goblets,  there  was  a  large  recess,  made  by 
that  end  of  the  room  abutting  out  into  the 
street,  wherein  were  most  of  the  principal 
personages  of  the  company.  First,  for  in 
respect  of  his  calling,  I  would  give  him 
precedency  of  the  others,  there  sat  Sir  Na- 
thaniel the  curate,  easily  to  be  known  by 
his  portly  person,  his  merry  eye,  his  loud 
laugh,  and  his  free  speech.  It  was  bruited 
abroad  that  he  loved  good  living  better  than 
became  a  churchman,  and  his  maple  face 
and  famous  round  belly  did  confirm  such 
tales  wonderfully.  In  apparel  he  was  slov- 
enly, and  not  over  clean  in  his  linen  ;  but 
being  of  a  ready  wit  and  of  a  cheerful  hu- 
mor, he  went  on  from  day  to  day  feasting 
wherever  there  was  any  store  of  victual,  a 
welcome  if  not  an  honored  guest.  Beside 
him  was  one  Stripes  the  schoolmaster,  and 
as  folks  said,  a  notable  conjuror,  who  had 
a  very  lean  look  with  him,  and  wore  such 
garments  as  seemed  to  be  clean  past  all 
recovery  of  tailoring,  they  were  so  thread- 
bare. By  what  was  going  on,  it  appeared 
as  if  he  was  content  to  be  the  butt  of  the 
other,  for  he  took  in  good  part  all  the  jests 
the  curate  aimed  at  his  shrunk  shanks,  his 


lantern  jaws,  his  darned  hose,  and  his  old 
fashioned  doublet,  and  moreover  assented  to 
what  the  other  said,  with  a  readiness  that 
savored  much  of  servility.  Nearer  this  way 
sat  a  substantial  looking  yeoman,  by  name 
Richard  Hathaway,  clad  in  honest  home- 
spun, in  deep  discourse  with  a  neighboring 
wealthy  sheep  farmer,  concerning  the  mar- 
ket price  of  wool,  the  state  of  the  crops,  and 
the  like  matters.  A  knot  of  burgesses 
were  standing  round  two  aldermen  of  the 
town,  who  were  debating  very  stoutly  upon 
business  connected  with  the  corporation ; 
and  the  parish  clerk,  a  little  dumpy  man, 
with  monstrous  thick  legs,  was  leaning  half 
out  of  the  casement,  in  earnest  talk  with 
some  one  in  the  street  below. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  chamber  were 
ail  the  women  congregated,  appareled  in 
their  very  best,  and  talking  as  though  none 
had  a  mind  to  listen.  The  rich  farmer's 
wife,  sitting  very  stately  in  a  robe  of  fine 
scarlet,  with  a  white  hood,  a  gay  purse,  and 
a  bunch  of  keys  at  her  side,  hanging  from 
a  silken  belt  of  silver  tissue  ;  whilst  her 
waist  was  bound  with  a  sash  of  grass-green 
silk  richly  embroidered,  no  lack  of  jewels 
about  her,  and  on  each  finger  two  rings  at 
least,  divided  the  admiration  of  her  compan- 
ions with  the  aldermen's  wives  in  watchet- 
colored  tunics  and  fringed  kirtles,  with 
golden  coifs  and  other  costly  toys,  where- 
with they  had  attired  themselves.  In  the 
midst  of  them  sat  Dame  Shakspeare,  mod- 
estly and  matronly  clad,  and  without  doubt, 
as  seemly  a  woman  as  any  there,  looking 
contented  and  happy,  and  giving  very  earnest 
thanks  to  her  good  friends  and  guests  as 
they  made  up  to  her  with  some  pretty  gift 
or  another — mayhap,  a  set  of  apostle  spoons, 
or  a  standing  cup  of  silver,  or  a  gilt  bowl, 
for  the  boy,  who,  with  the  chrisom-cloth 
about  him  in  token  of  his  recent  baptism, 
lay  in  the  arms  of  his  nurse — a  rosy  faced 
dame,  who  stood  beside  her  mistress  com- 
mending of  the  babe  to  all  comers  above 
babes  that  ever  lived.  And  lastly,  by  the 
door,  giving  a  hearty  welcome  to  all  who 
entered,  dressed  in  an  excellent  suit  of  Lin- 
coln green,  and  having  as  cheerful  face  as 
a  man  ever  wore,  stood  worthy  John  Shaks- 
peare, the  giver  of  the  feast. 

"  Come  in,  neighbors  !  I  pray  you  come 
in  !"  exclaimed  he,  as  some  were  entering. 
"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  you,  and  my  good 
dame  be  as  ready  to  give  you  a  welcome  I'll 
be  bound  for't.  Well  met  Thomas  Hart ! 
Robert  Bruce  I  commend  me  to  your  good 
will.  Worthy  Hammet  Sadler  I  am  much 
beholden  to  you  for  this  visit.  Ha,  Oliver 
Dumps  !"  cried  he,  as  his  eyes  lighted  on  a 


16 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


melancholy  looking  little  man,  in  a  new 
leathern  jerkin  and  black  karsie  hose. 
"  Though  most  men  hugely  mislike  visits 
of  the  constable,  I  greet  you  well." 

"  God  requite  you,  neighbor,"  answered 
the  man,  not  altering  a  whit  the  solemness 
of  his  aspect. 

"  Methinks  we  are  all  indifferently  hon- 
est," continued  his  ho.«;t.  "  Yet  are  we  well 
inclined  you  should  exercise  your  office 
amongst  us  with  as  little  hindrance  as  may 
be." 

"  Marry,  'tis  a  villainous  world !"  ex- 
claimed the  constable.  "  But  if  any  disho- 
nesty hath  been  done,  point  me  out  the 
knave,  that  I  may  take  him  up  before  his 
worship." 

"  Nay,  by  your  leave  not  so,"  replied  the 
other.  "  If  you  are  for  talcing  up,  we  are 
only  willing  you  should  take  up  tiie  dinner  : 
but  with  such  an  offender  we  doubt  not  being 
able  to  play  the  high  bailiff  as  well  as  any 
in  the  county,  and  would  on  the  instant 
commit  him  to  safe  custody  in  our  own 
keeping."  Thereupon  there  was  a  laugh 
of  those  around  ;  for  when  the  host  takeih 
upon  himself  to  jest,  even  if  his  wit  be  not 
of  the  brightest,  the  guests  must  lack  good 
manners  sadly,  if  their  mirth  break  not  out 
at  it  witliout  stinting. 

"  See  you,  John  a  Combe  !"  inquired  the 
buxom  wife  of  one  of  the  aldermen  to  the 
other,  as  they  now  stood  somewhat  apart 
from  the  rest,  observing  the  scene  I  have 
endeavored  to  describe. 

"  Ay,  yonder  is  he.  Mistress  Alderman 
Malmsey,"  replied  the  other,  pointing  to  one 
who  had  just  entered,  and  seemed  by  his 
apparel  to  be  somewhat  of  a  gallant,  for  he 
was  very  daintily  dressed  in  a  new  puce- 
colored  doublet,  with  scarlet  hose,  buff 
shoes,  and  fine  rosettes  to  them :  a  well 
starched  ruff  below  his  beard,  and  a  hand- 
some rapier  at  his  girdle. 

"  By  our  Lady,  Mistress  Alderman  Dow- 
las, he  beareth  himself  bravely,"  exclaimed 
the  first. 

"  I'faith  methinks  he  is  as  pretty  a  man 
as  any  of  his  inches,"  added  the  other. 

"  And  then  to  note  how  civilly  he  behaveth 
himself,"  continued  Dame  Malmsey.  "He 
ever  speaketh  of  us  women  in  such  delicate, 
respectful  terms  as  would  do  a  woman's 
heart  good  to  hear ;  and  if  any  so  much  as 
insinuat(!  aught  to  our  prejudice,  it  moveth 
him  so,  he  will  be  ready  to  fight  the  biggest 
man  of  them  all." 

"  And  yet  I  marvel  he  should  still  remain 
a  bachelor,"  observed  Dame  Dowlas.  ••  He 
cannot  be  less  than  a  good  iiiniily  age,  for  as 
Master  Alderman,  my  husband,  hatli  tolil  me, 


it  was  twenty-five  years  come  Whitsuntide, 
since  old  John  a  Comix?  bought  his  wedding 
suit  of  his  father  ;  and  that  he  is  well  accom- 
modated for  a  wife  there  can  be  no  question, 
seeing  that  he  hath  ever  a  fiir  sum  of  money 
in  his  pur.'^e  at  a  friend's  need,  and  old  John 
a  Combe  hath  the  reputation  of  v.-cll  filled 
coffers." 

"  Perchance  the  old  man  is  notwillinghis 
son  should  marn*',"  said  her  companion. — 
"Or,  mayhap,  tliinks  it  fit  he  should  wed 
witli  none  but  the  chiefest  families,  for  he 
hath  taken  infinite  pains,  and  spared  not  the 
cost,  he  siiould  have  as  good  schooling  as 
any  in  the  land  ;  whereof  the  consequence  is, 
you  shall  find  young  Jolm  a  Combe  one  of 
the  propcrcst  gentlemen  to  be  met  with  in  all 
Warwickshire." 

"  Certes,  he  secmcth  not  to  affect  one  more 
than  another,"  exclaimed  Dame  Malmsey." 
"But  I  would  wager  my  best  kirtle,  there  is 
never  a  maid  i'or  five  miles  round  Stnitlord, 
who  would  not  give  her  ears  to  have  him  for 
a  husband." 

"  In  all  sincerity  I  say  it,  I  wish  he  may 
find  a  wife  worthy  of  him,"  said  the  other,  to 
which  her  companion  added  a  like  sincere 
wish.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  object  of  their 
friendly  commendations  passed  across  the 
chamber,  very  courteously  returning  tlie 
courtesies  of  those  *he  met, — and  few  wore 
there  that  did  not  hasten  to  greet  him,  as 
soon  as  they  caught  sight  of  him  at  his  en- 
trance, which  showed  in  wliat  estimation  he 
was.  These  as  quickly  as  he  well  could  he 
parted  from,  and  made  up  to  Dame  Siiak- 
speare,  who  witli  a  fiice  radiant  with  her 
choicest  smiles,  gave  him  her  hand  at  liis 
approach. 

'•  I  beseech  you,  pardon  mo,  I  have  come 
so  late,"  said  he  to  her,  in  a  very  soft,  gentle- 
manlike voice ;  "  I  have  been  detained  against 
my  will,  else  would  I  have  been  here  long 
since." 

"  I  pray  you,  trouble  not  yourself  abo'.it 
it,"  replied  she,  with  an  excellent  pleasant 
kindness.  "  Believe  me,  you  are  infinitely 
welcome.  Master  Combe,  honor  our  ]a>or 
dwelling  when  you  will." 

"In  sooth,  I  regret  exceedingly  not  having 
sooner  paid  my  respects  to  our  young  master 
here,"  added  he,  looking  from  the  smiling 
mother  to  the  pretty  babe  willi  a  delighted 
countenance.  "  For  never  saw  I,  in  all  my 
days,  a  child  whose  exquisite  comeliness 
uiHde  earliest  acquainUmce  so  desirable." 

"  Nay,  sweet  Sir,  it  is  your  g(XHlness  that 
maketh  you  think  so,"  replied  she,  though 
pleased  beyond  measure  with  the  compli- 
ment. 

"An'  it  please  your  worehip,  it  be  very 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


17 


exquisite  comeliness,  indeed  !"  exclaimed 
the  nurse  with  some  emphasis,  as  she  held 
out  the  child  to  be  seen  by  him  more  conve- 
niently. "  In  all  honesty  I  say  it,  I  know 
not  the  babe  so  choicely  featured.  I  pray 
you,  note  how  fair  a  forehead  it  hath — tlie 
hair,  no  silk  ever  was  of  such  marvelous  iiue- 
ness — here  are  cheeks  that  boes  would  clus- 
ter at  takincr  them  to  be  sucli  dehcate  rari- 
ties as  they  have  had  no  experience  of — but 
the  eyes.  I  pray  your  worship,  look  at  these 
eyes  !  What  pretty  twinklers  they  be  !  So 
mild,  so  soft,  so  loving,  and  so  roguish  withal ! 
I'faith,  eyes  of  so  rare  a  sort  surely  no  child 
ever  had  ;  and  as  for  this  dainty  little  mouth 
— if  there  shall  be  found  any  cherry  so  tempt- 
ing to  look  upon,  I  am  no  true  woman." 

"  O  my  life,  he  is  wonderfully  pretty !" 
r,ned  John  a  Combe,  gazing  with  an  admir- 
ing eye  upon  its  many  attractions. 

"  Dost  think  so,  really  ?"  asked  the  happy 
mother. 

"  But  then,  it  hath  such  strange,  wise, 
notable  ways  with  it  as  exceed  all  my 
cunning  to  describe,"  continued  the  nurse, 
jumping  her  charge  up  and  down  abit  as 
nurses  do.  "  And  for  a  curious  nature,  his 
exceedeth  all  comprehension.  There  shall 
nothing  pass  in  his  presence  unnoticed  of 
him ;  and  if  any  thing  new  come  within  his 
reach,  doubt  not  he  will  have  hold  of  it  in  a 
presently ;  nay,  his  curiousness  is  of  so  ex- 
treme a  sort,  that  if  he  but  get  sight  of  a 
thing,  he  will  allow  of  no  peace  till  he  have 
it  in'^his  hand,  and  thereby  gain  some  know- 
ledge what  stuff  it  be  made  of." 

"  Methinks,  nurse,  there  is  much  sign  of 
after  wisdom  in  being  so  early  a  learner," 
observed  John  a  Combe. 

"  Ay,  an  it  please  your  worship,,  that  is 
there  I'll  warrant  you,"  replied  she.  "  Then 
as  for  his  temper,  he  is  so  sweetly  disposed, 
none  can  help  loving  him.  He  is  none  of 
your  cross-grained,  restless,  ill-behaved  little 
brats  that  be  ever  a  squalling  and  bawling 
from  morning  till  night,  disturbing  of  every 
one — not  he  by  my  halidom !  for  he  is  so 
peaceable,  you  might  live  in  the  house  and 
not  know  a  babe  was  in  it.  He  goeth  to 
sleep  just  when  it  is  proper  for  him,  and 
vv'akes  himself  up  only  at  such  times  as  may 
be  most  convenient  for  him  to  be  looked  to.  In 
short,  I  will  be  bound  for't,  his  like  is  not  to 
be  found  in  this  world  ;  and  if  he  come  not 
to  be  a  bishop  or  at  least  a  justice  o'  the 
peace,  I  shall  be  hugely  mistaken  in  him." 

"  O  my  word,  nurse,  you  have  mighty 
hopes  of  him,"  exclaimed  Dame  Shakspeare, 
gazing  fondly,  and  somewhat  proudly,  on 
the  object  of  so  much  eulogy,  as  it  lay  dandl- 
ing in  the  anus  of  her  attendant.    "  In  good 


truth,  I  cannot  expect  for  the  boy  any  such 
famous  fortune,  and  sliould  be  well  satisfied, 
could  I  be  assured  he  would  live  to  play  the 
part  of  an  honest  man,  and  die  in  the  esti- 
mation of  his  fellows." 

"  If  such  be  your  desire,  believe  me  the 
assurance  is  easily  come  at,"  remarked  John 
a  Combo,  courteously ;  "  for  it  is  manifest 
from  what  nurse  hath  said  of  him,  that  ha 
possesses  his  mother's  excellent  rare  virtues, 
and  with  such  commendable  gifts  he  cannot 
fail  to  realize  all  honorable  expectations." 

'•  I  am  proud  of  your  good  opinion,  worthy 
Master  Combe,"  answered  she,  with  the  un- 
affectedness  of  a  truly  modest  woman.  "  It 
shall  at  least  keep  me  at  my  powerfulcst  en- 
deavors to  deserve  it  better." 

"  As  some  small  token  of  my  regard,  I 
beseech  you,  accept  of  me  this  poor  trifle 
for  your  sweet  son,"  said  he,  as  he  produced 
a  very  daintily  wrought  silver  cup  and  cover. 

"  Beshrew  my  heart,  but  that  is  as  pretty 
a  present  for  a  babe  as  I  have  seen  this  many 
a  day,"  exclaimed  the  nurse ;  and  then  ad- 
dressing the  infant,  as  she  let  him  rise  and 
fall  in  her  arms,  cried  out,  "  Hoity  toity,  my 
young  master !  thou  hast  a  goodly  store  of 
"friends  methinks !  But  thou  deservest  it 
every  bit,  thou  dost,  tliou  pretty  rogue !" 
And  then  she  fell  to  tickling  of  him  with  one 
hand  upon  his  chest,  whilst  she  held  him  by 
the  other,  till  the  babe  laughed  after  so  de- 
licate a  fashion  as  was  exquisite  to  see. 

"  I  feel  too  much  beholden  to  you,  worthy 
Master  Combe,  to  say  aught  of  the  matter," 
said  the  delighted  mother. 

"  And  liere,  nurse,"  he  added,  taking  out 
of  his  purse  a  piece  of  silver,  which  he 
placed  in  her  hands,  "  is  some  small  token 
you  should  bestow  your  best  attentions  on 
this  my  young  friend  hero." 

"  That  will  I,  your  worship,  depend  on't, 
and  a  million  of  tlranks  for  your  worship's 
largess,"  exclaimed  the  other,  dropping  a 
curtsey,  as  she  accepted  the  coin.  "  Well, 
com.mend  me  to  Master  Combe,  for  a  true 
gentleman !"  continued  she  as  he  had  re- 
tired to  another  part  of  the  chamber. 

"  He  is  ever  so,"  answered  her  mistress. 
i  "  He  giveth  signs  of  a  most  liberal  heart, 
and  is  at  all  times  a  ready  mean  for  the  do- 
ing of  any  good.  Perchance  one  might 
travel  many  miles,  and  not  meet  with  so 
good  a  neighbor,  so  true  a  friend,  or  so 
worthy  a  Christian." 

"  Now,  neighbors  !  now  friends !  an  it 
please  you  in  to  dinner,"  cried  John  Shaks- 
peare; on  the  instant,  all  were  in  prepara- 
tion to  obey  the  welcome  summons,  and  John 
a  Combe  imrryiug  back  to  Dime  Shakspeare, 
gallantly  led  the  way  with  her,  followed  by 


18 


TILE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


the  rest  of  the  company,  till  he  had  placed  . 
lier  in  her  proper  seat.     After  Sir  Nathaniel  | 
had  said  grace,  the  company  set  down  to  a  I 
dinner  that  would  have  gladdened  any  but 
to  have  beheld  ;  for  there  was  brought  upon 
the  table  a  famous   store  of  all  tilings  in  1 
season,  with  plenty  of  excellent  liquor,  both 
ale  and  cider,  and  all  set  to  with  good  ap-  ■ 
petites  and  with  an  evident  determination  to  | 
enjoy  the  cheer  that  had   been  provided  for 
them.      Of   these,   none   so    distinguished 
himself  as  did  the   curate  and  the  school- 
master.    Stripes  sat  nearly  bolt  upright  in 
his  chair,  as  serious  as  a  judge  and  as  rave- 
nous as  a  wolf ;  yet  tliere  was  not  so  glar- 
ing an  impudcncy  in  his  proceedings  as  was 
in  the  other,  for  ho  was  not  importunate — he 
waited   to   be   asked — eat  what  was   given 
him — was    ready  again ;    and   with   small 
pressing,  continued  at  it   till  long  after  all 
else  had  done. 

The  host  and  hostess  seemed  ever  anx- 
ious that  each  person  should  have  what  ho 
liked,  and  plenty  of  it,  and  kept  Maud  the 
girl,  and  Humphrey,  the  boy,  at  their  vigil- 
ance, supplying  of  what  was  needed,  whilst 
John  a  Combe  busied  himself  in  pressing 
those  nighest  him  to  make  good  cheer,  and 
looked  as  if  ho  cared  not  what  he  had  him- 
self, as  long  as  the  rest  Jarcd  well.  Of  a 
surety  every  one  appeared  to  enjoy  himself 
t<)  his  heart's  content,  nor  were  the  women 
altogether  unmindful  of  the  bountiful  hospi- 
tality that  had  garnished  the  board  ;  for  they 
eat  and  praised,  and  smiled  in  such  a  sort 
as  showed  how  well  they  were  pleased  with 
their  entertainment. 

At  last  the  meal  was  over,  the  dishes  re- 
moved, and  in  their  stead  tlie  tables  were 
covered  with  a  plentiful  variety  of  cakes,  such 
fruit  as  could  be  got,  JMarclipane,  apples  and 
comfits,  stewed  prunes  and  dishes  of  other 
preserves,  syllabubs  for  the  younger  folks 
muffle  of  new  milk  and  verjuice,  and  wine 
for  the  elders  of  two  or  three  several  kinds  ; 
besides  which,  John  Shakspcare  was  brew- 
ing a  goodly  Lxjwl  of  sack  with  sugar  in  it, 
for  such  as  affected  such  delicate  drink,  of 
whom  the  two  aldermen  were  most  conspic- 
uous, swearing  there  was  no  such  liquor  in 
the  world,  whilst  his  excellent  sweet  wife 
opposite  was  preparing  a  jug  of  spiced  ale, 
such  liquor  being  desired,  above  all  others, 
by  such  of  her  guests  as  were  farnicrs  or 
yeomen  ;  ever  and  anon  saying  something 
to  the  nurse,  who  was  standing  behind  her 
chair  with  the  babe  in  her  arms  ;  or  ac- 
knowledging with  some  few  gracious  words, 
the  courtesies  of  John  a  Combe,  who  sat 
nigh  lier,  and  by  his  own  readiness  took 
heed  that  she  should  have  everything  she 


needed  ready  at  her  hand.  The  jingling  of 
glasses,  and  the  like  noises,  caused  by  the 
moving  of  bottles,  and  other  drinking  ves- 
sels, liaving  in  some  degree  subsided,  and 
all  having  before  them  what  they  most  de- 
sired, it  was  observed  that  John  a  Combe 
stood  up  with  his  glass  filled  in  his  hand  ; 
and,  with  some  ado,  the  rude  prating  of  Sir 
Nathaniel  being  stopped,  he  was  heard  to 
speak  after  this  fashion  : 

"  My  worthy  good  neighbors  and  friends ! 
There  is  a  custom  now  of  old  standing  in 
this  our  very  dear  country,  which  methinks 
should  be  held  in  good  esteem  of  all  true 
English  hearts;  to  wit,  the  drinking  of 
healths,  which,  I  take  it,  is  a  great  encoura- 
ger  of  honest  love  ;  and  keepeth  true  friend- 
ship in  excellent  remembrance  among  all 
men.  Now  it  may  be  known  unto  you,  that 
this  same  estimable  custom  is  in  most  re- 
quest amongst  those  of  old  acquaintance. 
Therefore  I  beseech  you  pardon  me,  if  on 
this  occasion  I  require  of  you  to  follow  the 
custom  with  some  alteration.  There  is 
no  old  familiar  friend  I  would  now  ask  your 
remembrance  of ;  but  one  whose  very  name 
hath  been  unknown  to  you  till  this  day.  I 
cannot  point  out  to  you  what  noticeable  vir- 
tues he  hath  shown,  worthy  of  your  com- 
mendation ;  for  as  yet  1  have  been  so  little 
in  his  company,  he  hath  not  had  time  to 
show  his  goodness  to  me  ;  but  knowing  his 
father's  extreme  honesty  of  soul,  and  his 
mother's  manifold  excellencies  of  nature,  I 
1  am  assured  he  cannot  fail  to  have  in  him 
such  bountiful  gifts,  as  in  good  time  must 
bring  to  him  all  good  men's  affections. 
Neighbors  I  I  pray  you,  with  full  cups  join 
with  me  very  heartily  in  drinking — health 
to  our  young  friend,  William  Shakspcare,  a 
long  life  and  a  prosperous  !" 

Metbinks  there  should  be  no  need  to  as- 
sure the  reader  that  the  desire  of  John  a 
Combe  was  Ibllowed  on  the  instant  with  the 
sincere  good  will  of  all  present. 

'■'•  Well  done,  John  a  Combo,"  shouted 
Sir  Nathaniel  ;  "  O'  my  life,  a  truly  e.xcel- 
lent  proper  speech  ;  anil  very  scholarly  spo- 
ken. What  sayest  Ticklebreech  ?"  cried 
he  familiarly  to  the  schoolmaster,  who  sat 
over  against  him.  "  Is  not  the  speech  a 
sound  speech,  ay,  and  a  notable  speech,  ay, 
and  a  speech  of  marvelous  discretion  ?" 

'•  An'  it  please  your  reverence,"  replied 
Stripes,  looking  all  tiie  whilst  as  soleuni  as 
if  it  was  a  matter  of  life  or  death  with  him  ; 
"  touching  the  speech  that  hath  lately  had 
utterance  amongst  us,  I  will  make  so  bold 
as  to  say,  that  a  properer  s])eech  shall  not 
be  found,  even  should  you  seek  for  it  in  the 
choicest  of  Demosthenes  his  IMiilippics,  or 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


19 


of  Cicero  his  Orations.  It  is  a  speech  that 
hatli  in  it  these  several  excellences  ;  excel- 
lence of  matter,  excellence  of  rhetoric,  and 
excellence  of" — 

"  It  may  be  known  of  all  here  I  am  no 
scholar,  like  unto  our  good  friend  and  neigh- 
bor Master  Combe,"  observed  John  Shaks- 
peare,  with  his  honest  cheerful  face  all  of  a 
glow,  and  to  the  complete  cutting  short  of 
the  schoolmaster  in  what  threatened  to  be 
an  exceeding  prosy  discourse.  "  Yet  had  I 
what  I  lack  the  most,  I  doubt  it  would  do 
me  such  good  office  as  sufficiently  to  assure 
him  of  the  full  great  love  I  bear  him  in  my 
heart  for  the  friendliness  he  hath  sliown  to 
me  and  mine  on  this  and  other  occasions. 
Fain  would  I  dilate  concerning  of  what 
numberless  famous  proofs  he  hath  exhibited 
of  the  generousness  of  his  humor,  but  that 
I  know  none  of  you  stand  in  any  ignorance 
of  them.  From  his  earliest  life  he  hath  been 
given  to  all  manner  of  truly  estimable  vir- 
tues ;  and  now  his  riper  manliood,  in  its 
thorough  honesty  and  free-heartedness,  de- 
clareth  what  proper  effect  hath  come  of  the 
exceeding  virtuousness  of  his  youth.  I  feel 
proud  that  Stratford  can  boast  of  such  a 
one  ;  and  I  pray  you  pardon  me,  when  I  add, 
ray  pride  is  none  the  less  at  finding  such  a 
one  should  hold  me  in  his  commendation  ; 
for,  as  I  take  it,  to  be  well  spoken  of  is  ever 
to  be  desired  ;  but  the  praise  of  the  praise- 
worthy is  a  thing  beyond  all  price.  In  tes- 
timony that  your  opinion  accordeth  with 
mine  own,  I  beseech  you  neighbors,  join  with 
me  in  drinking  to  the  health  of  our  wor- 
thy townsman,  John  a  Combe,  desiring  that 
he  may  long  continue  to  live  amongst  us, 
in  the  same  pride  and  honor  as  he  doth  at  this 
present." 

"  Marry,  but  this  lookoth  to  be  the  pro- 
perest  speech  of  the  two!"  exclaimed  Sir 
Nathaniel,  as  all  prepared  themselves,  and 
with  evidence  of  great  good  will,  to  do  as 
their  host  would  have  them  ;  "  What  sayest, 
Pedagogus  ?" 

'•  Indeed,  and  as  your  reverence  out  of 
your  singular  wisdom  hath  observed,"  said 
the  schoolmaster,  refraining  avvhile  from  the 
pippin  he  was  a  moment  since  intent  upon 
adding  to  the  great  mass  of  victual  that  had 
gone  before  it.  '•  It  be  out  of  all  compari- 
son the  properest  speech.  In  short,  it  shall 
be  found,  on  the  very  searchingest  exami- 
nation, of  so  proper  a  sort,  that  its  fellow 
shall  not  be  met  with,  seek  where  you  will." 

Much  more  of  the  same  poor  stuff  he 
might  have  added,  had  not  the  voice  of  John 
a  Combe  sent  him,  nothing  loath  to  the 
munching  of  his  pippin ;  for  he  was  of  that 
well-disposedness,  he  would  hold  his  prate 


when  his  betters  were  talking  ;  but  among 
poorer  folk  he  would  say  out  his  say,  were  it 
a  mile  to  the  end ;  and  heed  none,  should 
they  talk  ever  so.  Master  Combe,  thereup- 
on quickly  disclaimed  any  title  to  praise  for 
whatever  he  had  done  ;  asserting  that  it  was 
what  every  man  should  do,  regardless  of  all 
else  but  the  good  that  came  of  it.  This 
brought  others  to  speak,  especially  the  al- 
dermen and  burgesses  of  his  particular 
acquaintance,  who  in  homely  fashion  gave 
their  evidence  of  his  worthiness.  In  fact, 
every  one  appeared  anxious  to  say  in  what 
great  estimation  he  was  held  of  them,  only 
with  one  solitary  exception.  Of  the  com- 
pany was  one  Master  Buzzard,  a  gentleman 
of  those  parts,  who,  for  all  he  was  of  bet- 
ter estate  than  any  there,  was  an  ignorant 
vain  person,  living  in  great  dissoluteness, 
with  such  companions  as  the  priest  and  the 
schoolmaster,  and  other  roysterers ;  and 
cared  for  nothing  so  much  as  hawking  and 
spending  his  time  in  riotous  ill-living  among 
such  as  were  ready  to  fall  into  his  humor. 
He  was  of  a  middle  size  with  strong  body 
and  full  look,  and  affected  to  mislike  any- 
thing like  niceness  in  apparel.  Indeed,  his 
manners  were  of  the  rudest,  but  being  an 
excellent  customer  of  John  Shakspeare,  he 
got  invited  to  the  cln-istening.  At  hearing 
the  praises  that  were  so  bountifully  lavish- 
ished  upon  John  a  Combe,  his  soul  was 
stirred  with  a  very  devilish  envy ;  and 
though  he  said  nought,  save  'twas  to  mutter 
some  contemptuous  expression,  unheard  of 
any  but  those  nighest  him,  it  was  easy  to  be 
seen  that  he  was  in  wonderful  ill-humor. 

At  this  time  a  many  of  the  company  were 
amusing  themselves  at  the  game  of  Barley 
Break,  in  the  warehouse  and  places  where 
the  wool  was  stored,  and  other  things  in 
which  John  Shakspeare  dealt ;  and  it  did 
so  happen  that  Master  Alderman  Dowlas, 
the  draper,  was  shut  up  in  the  middle  room 
with  the  buxom  wife  of  his  neighbor.  Mas- 
ter Alderman  Malmsey,  the  vintner,  and  he 
must  needs  be  making  love  to  her,  though 
he  had  as  exquisite  fair  a  wife  of  his  own 
as  any  honest  man  need  desire.  Now  this 
worthless  draper  was  a  man  of  no  par- 
ticular likelihood  to  fall  in  with  a  pretty 
woman 's  fantasy,  having  features  by  no 
means  comely  ;  a  long  thin  nose,  and  a 
mouth  about  as  expressive  of  any  particular 
affectionateness  as  a  roll  of  broadcloth.  In- 
deed, there  was  a  sort  of  sanctimoniousness 
in  the  cut  of  his  beard,  and  the  cropping  of 
his  hair,  and  the  sober  suit  of  grey  in  which 
he  was  usually  appareled,  that  seemed  to 
give  the  flattest  contradiction  to  love  of  any 
sort,  unless  it  were  the  love  of  godliness 


20 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAIvSPEARE. 


and  a  decent  life.  Whether  what  he  had 
been  drinking:  put  into  his  head  any  sucii 
villainy,  or  that  he  was  of  a  very  amorous- 
ly disposed  nature  at  all  times,  1  know  not ; 
but  certain  it  is,  he  left  the  table  to  play  at 
Barley  Break ;  of  an  equal  surety  is  it,  he 
was,  in  the  course  of  the  game,  shut  up  in 
the  middle  room  with  the  young  comely 
wife  of  his  brother  alderman  ;  and  it  is  be- 
yond all  contradiction  that,  after  flattering 
"the  very  infiniteness  of  her  most  absolute 
and  inconceivable  beauty,"  as  he  was 
pleased  to  style  her  somewhat  attractiveness, 
in  a  sufficiency  that  ought  to  have  satisfied 
the  vainest  woman  that  ever  lived,  he  in  a 
monstrous  earnestness,  swore  he  loved  her 
better  than  aught  else  in  the  universal  world. 
"  Fie  on  you,  Jonathan  Dowlas  !"  cried 
the  pretty  woman,  evidently,  from  the 
twinkling  of  her  merry  dark  eyes,  taking 
the  aftliir  as  an  e.xccllcnt  good  jest.  "  I 
marvel  you  should  so  conduct  yourself  to 
your  friend's  wife,  and  you  a  godly  man 
too,  that  hath  been  married  this  seven  year  ! 
— as  I  live,  methinks  it  is  too  bad  of  you." 
"  Alack,  adorable  sweet  creature  !"  cried 
the  Alderman,  twitcliing  his  chair  as  nigii 
as  possible  to  hers,  the  which  she  marked 
by  immediately  increasing  the  distance  be- 
tween theui.  '•  'Tis  all  on  account  of  the 
insufficiency  of  the  flesh.  The  flesh  rc- 
belleth  against  all  discretion.  It  stirreth, 
as  it  were,  yea,  it  be  exceedingly  moved." 

"  I  would  it  would  move  fartlier  off  then," 
exclaimed  his  fair  companion,  as  she  remo- 
ved herself  a  short  distance,  upon  finding 
him  again  attempting  to  get  closer  to  her 
than  she  liked. 

"  Sweet,  Mistress  Malmsey,"  continued 
the  draper,  very  pathetically,  "  as  the  hart 
panteth  for  the  water  brooks,  dotii  my  enam- 
ored soul  tiiirst  after  ihine  incomparable 
sweet  perfection." 

"  Then  you  must  quench  vour  thirst  at 
other  fountains,  I  promise  you,"  jiithily  re- 
plied the  vintner's  wife.  "  My  husband  hath 
a  famous  store  of  wines.  I  doubt  not,  if 
you  would  give  him  an  order  for  some,  a 
draught  or  so  occasionally  would  do  you, 
out  of  all  comparison,  more  benefit  than 
would  the  draining  of  my  incomparable 
sweet  perfections  to  the  drega.'' 

"  Nay ,  that  never  could  l^e,  my  honeysweet !" 
exclaimed  the  Alderman,  trying  to  take  her 
hand,  wlucli  she  presently  snatched  away 
from  him.  "  Sooner  shall  princes  wear 
buckram,  and  penniless  rogues  rutHe  it  in 
ready  money  lj(!tter  tlian  credit,  and  large 
costliest  cloth  of  gold.  Believe  me,  as  I  love 
profits  before  any  loss,  I  shall  grow  into  a 
desperation,  succeed  1  not  in  my  suit." 


"  Your  suit  is  like  to  go  unshod,  for  it  is 
bootless,"  answered  Mistress  Malmsey, 
with  a  pretty  laugh  at  her  own  jest ;  then 
added,  more  seriously,  "  Marry  to  prevent 
such  a  mischance  as  your  falling  into  des- 
peration, 1  would  acquaint  your  wife  with 
your  desires,  and  doubt  not  at  all  she'd  suit 
you  in  a  presently." 

The  Alderman  looked  as  if  he  relished 
not  this  raillery.  He  spoke  never  a  word 
for  a  minute  or  so.  What  more  he  might 
have  said,  I  know  not ;  for  soon  after 
by  the  chances  of  the  game,  they  were  re- 
leased from  their  imprisonment,  and  she 
allowed  him  no  more  opportunity  of  having 
any  such  conversation  with  her  that  day. 
In  the  meanwhile,  they  at  the  table  were 
still  jovially  employed  in  making  good  cheer. 
John  a  Combe  was  intent  upon  setting  off 
every  one  to  enjoy  themselves  after  such 
fashion  as  pleased  them  most,  and  seeing 
that  all  had  proper  refreshment  when  their 
sports  had  tired  them  in  any  way.  John 
Shakspeare  was  employed  in  a  like  manner, 
and  so  was  his  good  dame  ;  whereof,  the 
consequence  was,  as  has  been  acknowledg- 
ed many  times  since,  that  there  never  was 
known,  at  any  merry-making,  such  a  gene- 
ral conlentation  of  the  guests ;  and  he  who 
was  the  general  cause  of  this  great  content 
lacked  no  honor  which  the  occasion  seemed 
to  warrant.  He  was  praised  as  bountifully 
as  if  each  had  taken  a  cue  from  the  nurse — 
all  the  women  must  needs  have  a  kiss  of 
him  ;  and  divers  among  those  nigh  unto  mar- 
riageable estate  would  not  be  satisfied  wilh- 
out  dandling  him  a  bit  in  their  arms — may- 
hap to  show  certain  of  the  young  men  there 
how  apt  they  were  at  so  notable  an  exercise. 
At  last,  having  been  caressed  and  praised 
of  all,  with  a  liberality  that  exceedetli  con- 
ception, amid  much  regret  of  the  young 
folks  nurse  took  him  away — as  in  .sooth,  it 
was  high  time  he  should  be  asleep  in  his 
cradle. 

Master  Burrard  continued  at  the  table 
eyeing,  with  a  marvelous  sour  and  gloomy 
aspect,  the  attentions  that  were  paid  to  John 
a  Combe  and  it  fretted  him  to  find  that  he, 
for  all  his  greater  state  was  iield  in  no  such 
estimation.  Along  with  him,  were  Sir  Na- 
thaniel, Stripes,  and  Oliver  Dumps;  and 
sometimes  others  woidd  join  them  for  a 
time,  upon  getting  weary  of  their  sports  ; 
but  these  four  appeared  to  like  nothing  so 
well  as  continual  tipj)ling  of  such  liquors 
as  were  before  them,  seasoned  with  such 
talk  as  persons  so  disposed,  were  most  like 
to  affect. 

"  It  may  be,  or  it  may  not  be,"  observed 
Sir  Nathaniel,  after  rehearsing  to  his  listen- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


21 


ers  a  scandalous  story  ;  "  but  here  is  a  child 
found,  and  as  far  as  my  learning  may  go,  I 
know  of  no  child  having  been  born  without 
the  help  of  a  mother.  What  sayest,  iSir 
Conjuror  ?" 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it,  please 
your  reverence,"  replied  the  schoolmaster. 
"  Though  it  hath  been  asserted,  by  divers 
creditable  historians  that  Venus  sprang 
from  the  foam  of  the  sea,  and  JMincrva  from 
the  brain  of  Jove  ;  for  my  own  part,  I  would 
maintain,  yet  with  all  due  deference,  the 
Titter  impossibility  of  any  one  person  com- 
ing into  this  world  without  having  to  boast 
of  a  mother,  and  perchance,  if  there  should 
be  no  doubt  on"t,  of  a  father  also." 

"  Thou  art  a  fool  old  hocus  pocus,  and  no 
conjuror  !"  exclaimed  the  curate,  sharply, 
"  a  very  fool,  and  as  ignorant  as  a  heathen. 
Had  Adam  a  mother,  or  Eve  ?  Surely  thou 
hast  forgotten  thy  Testament — thou  Ba- 
laam's ass  !  But  thou  never  wert  half  so 
wise  an  animal  as  he  ;  for  it  be  well  known 
of  all  men,  that  once  upon  a  tim.e,  when  he 
was  cnrrying  off  Potiphar's  wife  into  Egypt, 
he  spake  unto  Moses,  saying,  '  Paul !  Paul ! 
thou  almost  persuadest  me  to  be  a  Christian.' " 

"  Methinks  asses  must  have  been  wiser 
in  those  days  than  they  be  now,"  said  the 
constable,  gravely.  "  My  father  hath  had 
an  ass  of  his  own  a  long  time  past,  but  it 
never  gave  any  sign  of  speech." 

"  It  hath  begun  at  last,  then  eccc  signnm" 
cried  Sir  Nathaniel,  laughing  famously,  in 
which  he  was  joined  by  his  companions. 
"  But  touching  this  child.  It  doth  appear 
that  Dame  Lucy  made  discovery  of  a  young 
child  that  had  been  abandoned,  as  it  was  said  ; 
and  as  it  could  not  have  been  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's,  it  could  not,  with  any  toleration,  be 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  wife's.  That  child  the 
good  dame  had  me  christen,  some  short  time 
since,  by  the  name  of  Mabel ;  and  she  hath 
resolved,  as  she  told  me,  to  bring  it  up  as 
her  own  ;  the  which  she  must  needs  do  with 
the  perfect  likeness  that  ever  was,  for  many 
do  say  she  hath  other  right  to  it  tlian  that  of 
first  discoverer." 

"  By  God's  body,  it  be  infamous  !"  cried 
Master  Buzzard,  in  a  rude  loud  voice  that 
attracted  the  attention  of  all  within  reach  of 
it.  "  The  vileness  of  these  women  hath  no 
rivalry  save  the  craft  with  which  they  hide 
it.  They  are  traitors  to  honesty,  all  of  them  ; 
and  I  would  as  soon  believe  in  the  tri;stvvor- 
thiness  of  a  cut-purse,  as  I  would  in  the  vir- 
tuousness  of  any  one  of  them." 

"  An'  it  please  you.  Master  Buzzard,  the 
Queen's  Highness  whose  unworthy  con- 
stable I  am,  is  a  woman,  as  I  have  heard," 
here  remarked  Oliver  Dumps,  with  the  air  of 


]  one  who  cometh  to  the  resolution  of  doing 
I  his  duty  though  it  be  unpleasant  to  him. 
"  And  though  no  later  than  yesterday  I  did 
j  put  in  the  stocks,  for  wantonness,  one  Marian 
j  Loosefish,  a  woman  also,  as  in  my  conscience 
j  I  do  firmly  believe  ;  yet  as  it  seemeth  to  me 
'  it  be  like  to  bring  her  Majesty's  name  into 
I  contempt  among  all  her  loving  subjects — the 
which  be  against  the  law — to  say  that  wo- 
I  men  be  given  to  all  manner  of  villany,  and 
j  to  assert  at  the  same  time  that  the  Queen's 
!  Highness  is  a  woman,  I  must  maintain 
it  by  virtue  of  my  office,  that  if  all  wo- 
men may  be  queans,  then  is  the  queen  no 
woman." 

"  Pooh  !"  exclaimed  Master  Buzzard. 
"  But  I  will  not  have  it  '  pooh,'  "  cried  the 
constable,  raising  his  voice,  and  seeming  in 
some  indignation.  "  It  be  fiat  contumacioas- 
ness,  and  very  sedition.  1  will  allow  of  it 
on  no  account ;  and  I  charge  you,  on  your 
allegiance  declare  the  Queen's  Highness  no 
woman,  or  any  such  vileness,  else  will  I 
straight  with  you  to  the  cage." 

"  What,  wouldst  put  a  gentleman  in  the 
cage?"  cried  .Sir  Nathaniel,  as  if  in  some 
surprise.  "  Hath  no  respect  for  persons  ?" 
"  No,  nor  for  parsons  cither,  should  they 
conduct  themselves  unadvisedly,"  answered 
the  little  man  determinedly.  "  I  am  put  in 
authority  for  the  preservation  of  the  ]-)cace, 
and  it  behoove th  me  to  keep  good  heed  there 
be  no  idle  pirating  like  to  lead  to  a  brawl." 

"  The  man's  an  ass,"  said  Master  Buz- 
zard, in  very  evident  contempt. 

"  Hullo,  my  masters  !  what  hath  caused 
this  unseemly  to  do  amongst  you?"  called  out 
John  a  Combe,  as,  drawn  by  the  constable's 
loud  voice,  and  violent  manner,  he,  with 
others,  was  attracted  to  the  table.  "  I  mar- 
vel, on  such  an  occasion  as  this,  to  see  any 
quarrelhng.  I  pray  you,  say  the  matter  of 
difference  betwixt  you,  that  I  may  do  my 
best,  as  speedy  as  may  be,  to  bring  it  to  an 
amicable  ending." 

"  Marry,  this  is  it,"  replied  Oliver,  in  no 
way  abating  the  greatness  of  his  indignation, 
whilst  Master  Buzzard  sat  with  a  ])erfect 
indillbrency,  mingled  with  some  scorn  of  the 
whole  business,  rocking  himself  on  his  chair, 
"  Master  Buzzard  hath  given  me  ill  words, 
and  I  will  liave  the  l&w  of  him ;  moreover, 
he  hath  spoken  shamefully  of  the  queen's 
grace,  for  the  wliich  he  shall  have  to  make 
proper  amends  ;  and,  lastly,  ho  hath  insinu- 
ated evil  opinions  of  my  lady,  the  wife  of  his 
worship  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  in  particular, 
and  of  all  women  in  general,  saying  that 
they  bo  notoriously  dishonest,  and  ever  given 
to  unlawful  behavior." 

"  What  he  hath  spoken  ill  of  yoH,  worthy 


22 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


Master  Constable,  be  sure  he  said  in  jest,"  I 
remarked  John  a  Combe.  "  And  I  cannot  | 
behevo  you  to  1);^  so  unneighborly  as  to  allow  \ 
of  such  a  thing  moving  you."  j 

"  Nay,  but  lie  hath  called  me  an  ass.  Mas- 
ter Coiiibe,  and  there  be  no  jest  in  that  as  I 
can  sec,"  cried  out  the  offended  constable. 
"  He  meant  it  as  a  jest  depend  on't,"  re- 
plied the  other. 

"  Ay,  'twas  a  jest  out  of  all  doubt,"  here 
observed  Sir  Nathaniel,  just  after  draining 
his  goblet.  "  Didst  not  take  it  take  it  for  a 
jest,  Ticlvlebrecch  ?"  added  he,  turning  to 
his  companion. 

"  O'  my  lil'e  yes,  an't  please  your  reve- 
rence," answered  the  schoolmaster ;  "as 
excellent  good  jest  as  ever  I  heard." 

"  Well,  an'  it  be  a  jest,  indeed,"  said  Oli- 
ver Dumps,  in  a  quieter  tone  ;  "  believe  me 
I  was  ignorant  of  it,  else  would  I  have  said 
nought  of  the  matter,  for  I  am  not  so  crab- 
bed as  to  take  offence  where  none  be  intend- 
ed ;  but  what  saith  he  concerning  his  ill 
speech  of  the  queen  ?  that  was  no  jest,  at 
least  he  will  hnd  it  none,  I  warrant  you." 

"  You  must  liave  misunderstood  his  mean- 
ing surely  ?"'  observed  John  a  Combe.  "  'Tis 
not  at  all  in  reason  tliat  one  known  to  be  so 
well  disposed  towards  her  Majesty  as  is 
Master  Buzzard,  should  say  so  much  as  one 
single  word  to  her  prejudice." 

"  If  he  said  not  all  women  be  mere  wan- 
tons, count  me  the  lyingest  knave  in  Chris- 
tendom," asserted  the  constable  with  some 
vehemence. 

"  Perchance  he  may  have  said,  it,  but  that 
he  had  any  such  meaning  will  I  never  be- 
lieve," remarked  Master  Combe. 

"  I  will  wager  my  life  on  it  he  had  a  very 
different  meaning,"  exclaimed  the  curate. 
Then  called  he  to  his  sworn-fellow,  "  What 
sayest,  Lanthornjaws  ?" 

"  Please  your  reverence,  I  will  vouch  for 
it,  his  meaning  must  needs  have  been  of  a 
clean  contrary  sort,"  readily  answered  the 
schoolmaster. 

"  IMarry  then,  since  that  be  the  opinion 
of  these  honest  gentlemen,  I  will  not  stir  in 
tlie  matter  further,"  said  Oliver.  "  I  would 
torture  no  man's  sjjeech  to  do  him  hurt,  not 
I,  even  thougli  I  might  be  made  alderman  to- 
morrow for't.  iJiit  touching  my  lady,  Sir 
Thomas  Jjiicy's  wife,  1  heard  of  a  child  she 
had  found  and  bringoth  up  as  her  own,  of 
the  wiiich  if  1  rememlx'.r  me.  Master  Buz- 
zard believeth  the  good  lady  to  be  the  mo- 
ther, witliout  consent  lirsl  had  and  obtained 
of  his  worship,  her  husband  ;  and  lliis  I  take 
it,  can  Ikj  no  other  than  scandalum  magna- 
tum — a  terrible  heinous  offence  as  I  have 
heard." 


"  I  cannot  believe  Master  Buzzard  would 
speak  of  such  a  matter,  save  as  the  common 
talk  of  the  vulgar  sort,  who  know  no  bet- 
ter," said  John  a  Combe.  For  mine  own 
part,  tliere  is  nothing  of  whicli  I  am  so  well 
assured  as  of  the  wonderful  excellence  of 
woman.  All  that  ex-treme  force  of  rhetoric 
could  speak,  or  most  famous  cunning  of  the 
pen  could  describe,  in  my  humble  opinion 
could  never  give  her  such  sufficient  justice 
as  her  infinite  merits  deserve.  Whatever 
there  is  of  goodness — whatever  there  is  of 
kindness,  of  pitifulness  of  heart,  of  noble- 
ness of  disposition,  have  their  chiefest  place 
in  her,  and  she  is  the  origin  of  that  mar- 
velous sweet  power  that  gives  humanity  its 
rarest  excellence,  and  binds  all  nature  in 
one  unending  chain  that  never  rusts,  that 
will  not  clog,  and  that  cannot  be  sundered 
— the  links  whereof  are  those  endearing 
sympathies  that  join  to  form  the  universal 
bondage  of  the  affections.  Such  bountiful 
store  of  graces  does  she  possess,  that  al- 
though poets  from  earliest  time  have  been 
endeavoring  to  make  them  known  to  the 
world,  in  our  own  day  such  attractions  as 
have  escaped  notice,  are  found  to  be  out  of 
all  number ;  and  it  hath  been  well  asserted, 
the  same  is  like  to  continue  to  latest  pos- 
terity. Methinks  tiiere  shall  be  no  need  of 
saying  aught  to  show  what  great  share  she 
hath  in  the  production  of  everything  that 
tendeth  to  happiness  in  this  world,  for  you 
cannot  help  knowing  that  all  true  pleasure 
is  of  her  giving.  Of  her  excellence  I 
would  content  myself  with  asking — What 
virtue  is  like  to  a  woman's  ? — What  honesty 
is  like  to  a  woman's  ? — What  love,  what 
courage,  what  truth,  what  generousness, 
what  self-denial,  what  patience  under  atflic- 
tion,  and  forgiveness  for  wrong  come  at  all 
nigh  unto  such  as  a  woman  showeth  ?  Be- 
lieve me  the  man  who  cannot  honor  so  truly 
divine  a  creature,  is  an  ignorant  poor  fellow, 
whom  it  would  be  a  compliment  to  style  a 
fool ;  or  an  ungrateful  mean  wretch,  whom 
charity  preventeth  me  from  calling  a  villain." 

'•Thou  liest.  knave!"  sliouted  Master 
Buzzard,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  drawing 
his  rapier,  and  looking  to  be  in  a  monstrous 
deadly  rage.  '•  Thou  art  thyself  l)\it  a  pal- 
try villain  as  ever  lived,  and  a  coward  to 
boot,  as  I  will  presently  jirove — so  come  on, 
or  I  will  niak(>  no  more  account  of  thy  pes- 
tilent body  than  I  would  of  a  stinking 
mackerel." 

"Aid  in  the  Queen's  name,  you  that  be 
good  men  and  true  !"  exclaimed  the  consta- 
ble, amidst  the  shrieks  of  the  women  and 
the  outcries  of  the  men,  as  he  bustled  up 
between  the  expected  combatants. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"Put  down  your  weapon,  Master  Buz- 
zard, I  pray  you,"  cried  John  Shakspeare, 
hastening  with  others  to  the  scene. 

"  I  will  cut  oft"  thy  ears  as  a  supper  for 
my  dogs  !"  continued  Master  Buzzard,  seem- 
ing to  increase  in  his  passion. 

"  A  riot !  a  riot !  Surrender  you  my  pris- 
oner in  the  Queen's  name !"  added  Oliver 
Dumps,  advancing  close  to  tlie  offender,  as 
if  with  the  intention  of  seizing  him. 

"  Out  fool,  or  I  will  pin  thee  to  the  wall," 
shouted  Master  Buzzard,  making  a  pass  at 
the  constable,  the  which  to  avoid  he  made 
a  leap  of  so  prodigious  a  length,  it  hath 
been  said  he  never  did  such  a  feat  before  or 
since. 

"  Oh,  here  will  be  a  foul  murder  done !"  ex- 
claimed Dame  Shakspeare,  piteously  wring- 
ing of  her  hands. 

"  Come  on  fellow,  and  take  thy  death  !" 
cried  Master  Buzzard,  going  furiously  at 
John  a  Combe,  who  had  got  his  weapon  out 
in  readiness  to  defend  himself,  but  ere  his 
opponent  reached  within  thrusting  distance, 
John  Shakspeare  had  fast  hold  of  his  arm, 
and  others  springing  on  him  at  the  same 
moment,  he  was  soon  deprived  of  all  means 
of  offence. 

"  I  marvel  a  person  of  your  quality  should 
be  for  a  quarrel  at  such  a  time  as  this,"  ob- 
served his  host. 

"  Is't  fitting  such  a  pitiful  coxcomb  of  a 
fellow  should  preach  to  me,"  cried  the  other 
very  furiously,  striving  to  break  from  those 
who  held  him. 

"Hold  him  fast,  good  neighbors,"  ex- 
claimed Oliver  Dumps,  nov/  coming  nearer, 
seeing  that  his  prisoner  was  disarmed.  "  Let 
him  go  on  no  account,  I  pray  you.  He 
hath  sought  to  do  me  deadly  injury  in  the 
execution  of  my  office,  and  it  cannot  but  go 
hard  with  him  at  assize." 

"  I  beseech  you,  pass  it  over  !"  said  John 
a  Combe.  "  It  was  but  some  sudden  heat 
of  temper  in  him,  and  I  doubt  not  he  will 
regret  it  in  the  morning." 

"  Away  coward  ;  I  spit  at  thee  !"  shouted 
Master  Buzzard,  in  a  fiercer  rage  than  ever, 
as  he  was  being  borne  out  at  the  door.  "  I 
do  long  to  be  at  thee.  I  would  make  more 
holes  in  thy  body  than  shall  be  found  in  a 
sieve." 

"  Bring  him  along,  neighbors,"  cried  the 
constable.  "  We'll  spoil  this  killing  humor 
of  his,  I  promise  you." 

Master  Buzzard  was  forcibly  carried  out 
of  the  house,  yet  without  any  rudeness  on 
the  part  of  his  bearers,  who  because  of  his 
quality  were  loth  he  should  be  pimished  for 
his  brawling;  and  after  much  opposition 
from  Oliver  Dumps  wanting  to  be  thought 


the  Queen's  trusty  officer,  who  liked  not  of 
an  offence  being  hushed  up,  it  was  agreed 
that  no  notice  should  be  taken  of  it,  on  con- 
dition of  the  offender's  going  peaceably 
home.  In  the  mean  time,  the  guests  re- 
covering from  their  alarm,  got  to  dancing  a 
measure,  and  other  diversions,  as  if  nought 
had  happened  to  disturb  their  sports,  and 
went  not  away  till  late,  vowing  that  of  all 
the  merry  meetings  they  had  been  at,  for 
the  pleasure  they  had  had,  none  had  been 
like  to  the  christening  of  William  Shaks- 
peare. 


CHAPTER  III. 

These  things  begin 
To  look  like  dangers,  now,  worthy  my  fates. 
Fortune,  I  see  thy  worst ;  let  doubtful  states. 
And  things  uncertain  hang  upon  thy  will ; 
Me  surest  death  shall  render  certain  still. 

Ben  Jons  in. 
I  held  it  ever 
Virtue  and  cunning  were  endowments  greater 
Than  nobleness  and  riches  ;  careless  heirs 
May  the  two  latter  darken  and  expend  ; 
But  immortality  attends  the  former. 
Making  a  man  a  god. 

Shakspeare. 
Their  angry  looks,  their  deadly  daunting  blows. 
Might  witness  well  that  in  their  hearts  remained 
As  cankered  hate,  disdain,  and  furious  mood. 
As  ever  bred  in  bear  or  tiger's  breast.  j 

Gascoyne.      * 

"  Saul,  what  art  doing  ?" 

"  Looking  to  see  that  the  gesses  and  bells 
of  this  tercel  gentle  be  in  the  properest  trim, 
master." 

"  Ay,  well  thought  of;  but,  as  I  have 
ever  marked,  thou  hast  wonderful  foresight." 

"  Marry,  my  sight  be  good  enough ;  me- 
thinks  I  can  trace  a  hawk  as  well  as  any." 

"  In  truth  thou  hast  many  commendable 
qualities,  and  I  would  fain  give  some  token 
of  how  well  esteemed  they  are  of  me." 

"  Indeed  !  but  that  be  kind  of  you,  master ; 
monstrous  kind  !  and,  as  for  my  qualities,  I 
doubt  they  be  anything  out  of  the  coumion. 
Peradventure  I  am  as  cunning  at  the  rear- 
ing of  hawks  as  any  fellow  in  Warwick- 
shire ;  at  quarterstaff,  wrestling,  pitch  the 
bar,  running  at  the  quintain,  and  other 
games,  care  for  none ;  and  will  dance  a 
morrice,  play  the  hobby-horse  in  the  May 
games,  or  take  a  fling  at  a  Shrove-tide  cock, 
with  as  much  perfectness  as  you  shall  see 
among  a  thousand." 

His  master  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  so; 
yet  his  aspect  wore  a  troubled,  and  by  no 


84 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


means  pleasing  expression,  that  looked  as  if 
he  wanted  to  disburden  his  mind  of  some- 
thin"'.  For  a  while  he  kept  feeding  of  a 
hawk  he  held  on  his  wrist.  His  companion 
was  a  sturdy  varJct  of  some  thirty  years, 
with  a  freckled  face,  a  thick  clum.-<y  head, 
and  features  expressive  of  one  alike  reck- 
less and  impudent.  He  was  clad  in  a  for- 
ester's frock  of  Kendal  green,  confined  at 
tlie  waist  witii  a  belt,  liavlng  a  pocket  at 
the  side,  below  which  little  could  bo  seen, 
save  his  crimson  hose  and  thick  butF  boots  ; 
and  he  wore  a  rai)ier  and  a  dagger.  Of 
these  two  the  one  was  Master  Buzzard,  of 
whom  the  read-^r  hath  already  some  know- 
ledge, and  the  other  was  his  man  Saul,  his 
chief  favorite  and  conhdant.  Tiiey  were  to- 
gether in  the  hall,  once  a  fair  chamber,  in 
Waster  Buzzard's  house,  witli  a  famous  tim- 
ber roof,  and  a  goodlji  store  of  old  armor 
hung  about,  but  on  account  of  the  great 
number  of  iiawks  and  dogs  that  were  kept 
in  ii,  some  being  here  and  some  there,  a  lit- 
ter of  pups  in  one  corner  and  a  cast  of  fal- 
cons in  ;inother,  with  lurchers,  deer-hounds, 
and  spaniels  of  every  kind,  running  in  and 
out  of  every  hole  and  corner,  with  little  re- 
gard to  cleanliness,  the  place  was  scarce  fit 
for  any  human  being  to  be  in.  All  amongst 
tlie  corslets  and  plates  of  mail,  were  nailed 
the  skins  of  herons  and  the  tails  of  foxes, 
the  antlers  of  a  stag  and  the  heads  of  divers 
kinds  of  wild  fowl,  badgers,  pole-cats,  and 
other  vermin ;  and  there  seemed  to  be  but 
little  furniture  in  ordinary  use,  as  chair  or 
table,  uneiicumborcd  with  things  necessary 
for  hawking,  or  hunting,  or  iisliing,  or  some 
sport  of  a  like  nature.  On  a  corner  of  a 
long  table,  close  to  where  Master  Buzzard 
was  standing,  there  stood  a  tray  with  the 
remains  of  a  pasty,  and  a  flagon  beside  it, 
which  was  some  sign  that  the  place,  how- 
ever unsightly  it  might  be,  was  not  badly 
off  for  victual. 

"  Thou  knowest,  Saul,  how  good  a  master 
I  have  been  to  thee,"  continued  M;ister 
Buzzard'. 

"  Ay,  by  gog's  blood,  that  do  I !"  exclaim- 
ed his  man,  with  great  earnestness,  "  and 
many  thanks  to  your  worshi;).  Tfaith,  there 
is  no  denying  I  am  well  oil"  for  a  master,  for 
one  mon;  cunning  in  hunting,  and  hawking, 
and  all  such  goodly  sports,  ot  a  more  valor- 
ous nature,  li!t  his  weapon  bo  what  it  may; 
or  of  a  more  truly  prodigal  disposition,  upon 
any  proper  occasir)n,  I  doubt  hugely,  I  should 
meet  with,  sought  I  ever  so.  Marry,  if  your 
worship  is  as  wt;ll  oil"  for  a  servant  as  am  I 
for  a  master,  then  ought  we  to  be  envied  of 
all  men." 

"By  God's  I  value  not  my  best  goshawk 


as  I  do  thy  faithful  service,"  replied  his  mas- 
ter, still  seeming  to  keep  his  attention  nxed 
upon  his  bird.  '•  In  truth,  Saul,  I  do  look 
upon  thee  as  my  right  hand ;  and  I  do  in- 
tend, before  any  very  long  time  hath  passed, 
to  show  thee  such  excellent  insta.nce  of  my 
good  will  as  must  rejoice  thee  inlinitely  to 
see." 

"  'Fore  George !  master,  I  want  none 
such,"  said  his  companion,  albeit  with  a 
marvelous  lack  of  sincerity.  '•  Yet  would 
I  on  no  account  baulk  the  generousness  of 
your  humor.  I  am  not  unmindt'ul  how  oft 
your  worship  hath  stood  between  me  and 
liarm,  when  a  parcel  of  poor  linsey  wolsey 
knaves  of  the  town  yonder,  went  about  tell- 
ing of  me  the  horriblest  slanders  that  ever 
was  heard." 

"  Ay,  it  hath  been  said  of  many  thou 
wert  he  who  stabbed  Daniel  Short,  of  Bars- 
ton,  who  was  found  dead  in  the  meadow," 
observed  the  other,  regarding  of  his  goshawk 
with  a  more  intense  earnestness.  "But  I 
heeded  them  not.  It  was  sworn  before  the 
high  baililT  thou  didst  mL-^u-se  Joan  Spring- 
field at  the  town  end.  and  he  was  for  pro- 
ceeding against  thee  with  as  much  severity 
as  might  be;  but  I  stayed  him  in  the  matter. 
And  there  was  much  ado  made  of  thy 
shooting  at  Daniel  Buckthorn,  of  the  Mill ; 
and  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  tlK?e  had 
I  not  stepped  in  and  hushed  all  up." 

"  Never  was  man  so  abused  !"  exclaimed 
Saul  with  a  very  monstrous  vehemency.  "  I 
have  enemies,  master, — scores  of  them,  I 
promise  you ;  and  they  be  such  thorough- 
going cowards  and  dastardly  poor  villains  as 
cannot  come  with  any  fair  weapon  before 
me,  and  challenge  me  with  the  infamy  they 
would  lay  to  my  charge,  that  I  might  disprove 
it  on  their  pestilent  bodies,  but  needs  must 
whisper  all  manner  of  tlie  horriblest  false 
stuff  that  ever  was  uttered,  among  such  piti- 
ful i'ools  as  they  can  get  to  listen  to  tliem. 
'Slife,  master !  there  be  no  living  for  such 
knaves,  and  an  honest  man  might  as  well  go 
hang  at  once  as  be  jiestered  with  them.  For 
mine  own  part,  I  do  think  the  ridding  of  tho 
world  of  any  a  very  commendable  thing  ; 
and  could  I  meet  with  one  who  hail  been 
playing  his  knave's  tricks  on  your  worship, 
or  on  any  other  for  whom  I  am  so  bound, 
I  would  slit  his  weason  for  him  whenever 
the  time  ser\'cd,  and  none  should  be  tlie 
wiser." 

A  smile  of  jx-culiar  meaning  appeared  on 
the  face  of  Alaster  Buzzard  at  this  inti- 
mation. 

"Dost  know  John  a  Combe?"  inquired 
the  latter  with  an  a.ssumed  indiflerency. 

'*  Know  John  a  Combe  I"'  exclaimed  Saul 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


25 


in  some  surprise,  and  with  a  more  evident 
contempt.  "  Is  he  not  the  errantest  skip- 
jack in  all  the  country  round  ? — a  tine  Sun- 
day ^rentleman,  forsooth  !  that  looks  as  if  he 
layeth  himself  up  in  lavender  o'nights,  that 
he  may  smell  sweet  i'the  morning  ?  Why  he 
is  as  common  as  the  stocks,  and  as  like  to  be 
avoided  by  all  true  men  as  is  tlie  pillory  or 
the  whipping-post.  I  should  as  soon  expect 
Gammer  Lambs  wool  to  inquire  for  the  gos- 
sip's bridle,  as  your  worship  to  ask  after  John 
a  Combe.  'S blood !  he  taketh  upon  him, 
too,  to  come  Master  perfection  over  us,  and 
must  needs  be  seeking  to  be  thought  an  ex- 
ample of  goodness,  and  wisdom,  and  every 
virtue  under  the  sun,  thinking  to  be  as  fa- 
mous as  Sir  Guy  of  Warwick.  I  would 
forfeit  a  year's  wages  found  I  not  more  vir- 
tue in  a  bunch  of  nettles  than  you  shall 
discover  in  him,  search  you  from  now  till 
doomsday." 

Master  Buzzard  sought  not  to  interrupt 
his  man  in  his  speech,  for  a  very  excellent 
reason,  because  it  v/as  much  to  his  liking, 
the  which  the  other  knew  full  well ;  for 
he  was  a  cunning  knave,  that  ever  stu- 
died to  jump  with  his  master's  humor  at  all 
times,  and  was  aware  of  what  had  passed 
betwixt  him  and  Master  Combe,  and  more- 
over, was  willing  enough  to  reap  advantage 
of  it. 

"  Indeed,  I  take  him  to  be  as  scurvy  a 
fellow  as  any  that  lives,"  observed  Master 
Buzzard  with  wonderful  bitterness. 

'•  That  is  he,  out  of  all  doubt,"  replied  his 
man  in  much  the  same  sort  of  spirit.  "  I 
hate  such  popinjays.  It  be  monstrous  fine 
certain'y  for  such  a  paltry  knave  as  he  is  to 
be  ever  schooling  of  your  worship,  as  it 
were" — 

"  I  tell  thee,  Saul,  I  will  endure  his  swag- 
gering airs  no  longer!"  exclaimed  Master 
Buzzard,  interrupting  his  man  with  great 
fierceness.  "  He  is  ever  thrusting  him- 
self in  my  way — a  murrain  on  him  !  I 
cannot  do  as  my  wont  for  his  pestilent  med- 
dling. Wherever  he  is  I  must  need  play 
mumchance.  All  run  to  John  a  Combe  ;  all 
bend  to  John  a  Combe ;  all  listen  to  John  a 
Combe  !  'SHfe  !  it  maketh  mo  mad  to  see 
him  so  noticed,  so  praised,  so  courted,  whilst 
his  betters  must  be  thrust  aside  as  worthy 
of  no  better  heed  than  a  mangy  cur." 

"  Doth  the  caitiff  ruffle  it  so  bravely  ?" 
inquired  the  other.  '•  Well,  never  heard  I 
of  such  thorough  impudency.  But  what 
ignorant  poor  fools  must  be  they  who  would 
be  led  by  him!  Marry!  I  am  so  moved 
with  indignation  at  the  slights  put  on  your 
worship  by  so  paltry  a  villain,  that  I  know 


not  what  mischief  I  should  be  ready  to  do 
him." 

"  But  that  is  not  the  worst  of  it,"  con- 
tinued his  master  with  more  vehemence. 
"He  hath  put  on  me  intolerable  affronts, 
and  as  yet  all  attempts,  seek  I  when  I  would, 
to  be  revenged  of  him,  have  been  bootless. 
No  later  than  this  very  morning,  scarce  an 
hour  gone,  meeting  him  alone  in  the  back 
lane,  I  drew  upon  him,  thinking  I  had  him 
sure ;  but  the  villain  carried  some  amulet  or 
devilish  charm ;  for  though  I  made  my 
deadliest  thrusts  with  all  the  skill  of  whicii 
I  am  master,  he  remained  unhurt,  and  in  a 
short  space  my  weapon  was  sent  flying  out 
of  my  hand  a  full  twenty  yards  ;  whereupon, 
with  a  Judas  smile,  the  villain  bowed  to  me, 
and  wishing  me  '  Good  day,'  took  himself  off 
on  the  instant." 

"  O'  my  life  !  'twas  but  a  coward's  trick, 
master!"  cried  Saul.  "I  marvel  you  did 
not  after  him  and  stick  him  as  he  went." 

"  By  this  hand,  I  would  gladly  have  done 
it!"  exclaimed  his  master.  "But  I  was  so 
confounded  at  the  flight  of  my  rapier,  and 
at  the  fellow's  assurance,  that  I  knew  not 
what  to  be  at,  and  ere  I  had  resolved,  he 
had  gone  clean  out  of  sight.  Doubtless  he 
will  go  bruiting  it  abroad,  as  far  as  he  can, 
how  he  had  me  at  his  mercy  and  spared  my 
life.  'Slife  !"  continued  he  with  an  exceed- 
ing uneasy  and  malignant  look  with  him, 
"  melhinks  I  am  poorly  served  when  such  a 
fellow  as  this  can  do  me  all  manner  of  of- 
fence, and  go  unharmed." 

"  Nay,  by  your  leave,  master,  not  so," 
quickly  answered  Saul,  "  when  you  have 
had  my  service  in  this  business,  I  will  be 
bold  to  say  you  shall  not  count  yourself 
poorly  served." 

"  I  would  I  could  be  well  rid  of  him," 
said  Master  Buzzard  in  a  lower  voice. 

"  If  it  please  you,  master,  let  that  be  my 
care,"  observed  the  other. 

"  I  hear  that  he  is  oft  to  be  met  with  af- 
ter dark  in  the  narrow  lane  at  the  town 
end,"  observed  Master  Buzzard,  his  voice 
gradually  sinking  to  a  whisper. 

"  A  goodly  place,  and  a  goodly  time  too," 
added  the  other,  with  a  sort  of  half  audible 
laugh, "  but  mayhap  his  worship  shall  choose 
to  go  there  once  too  often."  Thus  went  they 
on,  as  bad  men  do  concert  their  villanies, 
half  ashamed  to  look  each  other  in  the  face, 
antl  as  their  intentions  became  manifest, 
dropping  their  voices  to  a  close  whisper, 
that  the  evil  they  would  be  about  might  not 
bo  heard  of  any.  But  in  this  I  can  follow 
them  no  longer,  having  game  in  view  more 
worthy  of  the  reader's  attention. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


There  was  a  hall  to  be  holden  at  tha  town 
that  day,  at  which  the  aldermen  and  others 
of  the  corporation  had  been  summoned  in 
such  terms  as  showed  it  to  bo  a  matter  of 
the  very  luiixcst  importance  tiiat  called  them 
together.  Whether  it  related  to  certain  in- 
telligence of  some  rebellion  broke  out  against 
the  Queen's  Highness,  to  risings  of  tiie  pa- 
pists, or  to  rumors  of  invasion  from  the 
Spaniards,  seemed  not  to  bo  clearly  ascer- 
tained ;  for  among  the  honest  burgesses  who 
had  got  note  of  this  extraordinary  meeting, 
tliere  were  heard  as  many  reasons  for  it  as 
there  were  tongues  to  speak  them,  whereof 
the  general  belief  at  last  rested  upon  the 
three  above  named.  That  nothing  threaten- 
ed to  affect  the  immediate  safety  of  the  town 
was  apparent  from  the  usual  air  of  careless- 
ness and  security  that  prevailed  throughout 
the  principal  street.  Here  might  be  seen  a 
troop  of  boys  fresh  broke  out  from  school, 
hallooing  like  mad  ;  there  a  knot  of  a  mean- 
er sort  at  play,  whilst  a  little  one  from  the 
school,  though  hastening  home  to  his  pa- 
rents, kept  casting  belnnd  him  a  wistful 
look,  as  if  he  did  long  to  join  in  their  pas- 
time. One  or  two  big  dogs  were  seen 
stretched  at  their  lengta  by  their  master's 
doors,  and  now  and  then  some  one  or 
other  of  a  smaller  kind  would  dart  out  of  a 
doorway,  yelping  at  the  heels  of  the  noisy 
children,  till  one  more  courageous  than  his 
fellows  would  up  with  a  stone,  and  send  him 
back  yelping  louder  than  he  came,  making 
the  tailor  leap  from  his  board,  the  cordwain- 
er  throw  down  his  lapstone,  and  the  appren- 
tice leave  his  work,  to  see  what  was  the 
hubbub.  Here  and  there  careful  mothers 
were  calling  out  of  their  casements  to  has- 
ten homo  their  boys,  or  some  provident  house- 
wife would  be  casting  a  store  of  victual  for 
the  feeding  of  her  stock  of  fowls,  who,  with 
fluttering  wings  and  eager  throats,  would  be 
seen  eagerly  tlocking  towards  her. 

In  several  ])laces,  there  might  be  seen 
some  two  or  tin-ee  of  the  neighbors  convers- 
ing soberly  and  with  great  show  of  earnest- 
ness, more  particularly  about  the  doors  of 
the  principal  burgesses;  and  in  front  of  the 
casements  of  Master  Alderman  Malmsey, 
the  vintner,  where  there  was  a  famous 
grou[),  with  a  horseman  in  the  midst,  look- 
ing to  be  so  busy  of  speech  as  to  pay  but 
Httle  heed  to  the  tankards  and  drinking 
horns  held  by  some  of  them.  Opposite  was 
the  dwelling  of  Master  Alderman  Dowlas, 
the  draper,  with  its  lower  window.;  siiowing 
divers  rolls  of  cloth  of  sundry  colors,  whilst 
at  the  open  casement  above  sat  his  bu.xom 
fair  wife,  with  Mistress  Malmsey  at  her  side, 
plying  of  lior  needle  with  a  very  commend- 


able industr}',  and  as  it  seemed  using  her 
tongue  with  a  hke  speed.  Coming  down 
tiie  street  was  a  drove  of  cows,  some  of 
which  must  needs  put  their  heads  in  the 
water-trough  before  the  inn,  thinking  to 
have  a  good  drink,  but  the  stable  boys  \vould 
not  allow  of  it,  for  they  drove  them"  off  pre- 
sently, by  throwing  up  their  arms,  and  mak- 
ing a  great  shouting.  A  little  curly-haired 
child  scarce  big  enough  to  run  alone,  was 
standing  in  the  midst  of  the  road  mooing  at 
the  cattle  as  bold  as  you  please,  and  putting 
out  its  little  hands  as  if  to  prevent  them 
going  further ;  and  an  elder  sister,  with  a 
marvellous  anxious  frightened  face,  was 
rushing  from  a  neighboring  door-way  to 
hurry  liim  out  of  danger.  All  the  case- 
ments, and  nearly  all  the  doors,  stood  invit- 
ingly open  for  it  was  a  hot  summer's  day 
at  the  latter  end  of  June,  and  every  where 
there  where  signs  of  a  desire  to  be  relieved 
of  the  oppressive  sultriness  of  the  atmo- 
sphere, either  by  seeking  of  the  shady  place, 
or  where  a  draught  of  cooler  air  might  be 
gained,  or  by  drinking  of  tankards  of  cider 
and  other  refreshing  liquors,  wherever  they 
might  be  had. 

i'or  all  this  gossiping  and  carelessness 
on  every  side,  it  was  noted  that  one  or  two 
of  the  elder  aldermen  who  were  going  to  the 
hall,  wore  visages  of  e.xceeding  gravity,  and 
seemed  intent  upon  avoiding  the  approaches 
of  such  of  their  townsmen  as  they  met  in 
their  way,  with  looks  so  suspicious  and 
fearful,  that  the  latter  knew  not  what  to 
make  of  it.  Presently,  there  came  by  Jolm 
Shakspeare  and  Master  Combe,  likewise  on 
their  way  to  the  hall ;  but  they  looked  to  be 
in  a  more  serious  humor  even  than  the  al- 
dermen, and  would  on  no  account  stop  for 
any,  which  was  the  more  strange,  because 
both  were  well  known  to  be  of  a  most 
friendly  si)irit,  and  had  ever  cheerfully  an- 
swered any  man's  salutation. 

"  Whether  so  fast,  my  master  ?"  shouted 
Sir  Nathaniel,  as  lu  popped  his  fat  rosy  face 
out  at  the  casement  to  call  them.  "  Dost 
pass  so  exquisite  a  house  of  entertainment 
as  this,  at  the  pace  thou  art  going,  when  tlie 
sun  seemeth  to  be  intent  upon  making  of  us 
so  many  St.  IJartliolomews  ?  Two  rabid 
dogs  could  not  have  behaved  less  reasonably 
towards  good  liijuor.  Prithee,  come  and 
share  with  us,  and  doubt  not  being  welcome, 
even  if  thou  piiy  for  all." 

To  this  invitation,  the  two  merely  shook 
their  heads  and  continued  on  their  way,  to 
the  huge  discontent  of  the  curate  anil  the 
schoolmaster,  wiio,  at  tlie  sight  of  them,  ex- 
pected to  have  had  at  lea.>t  an  extra  tankard 
or  two  without  hurt  to  tlicir  own  purses. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


37 


John  Shakspearc  and  his  friend  then  pro- 
ceeded without  further  hindrance  to  the 
church,  and  soon  afterwards  entered  the 
vastly — a  chamber  of  no  great  dimensions, 
furnished  only  with  a  long  table,  at  the  head 
of  which  was  a  high-backed  chair,  and  on 
each  side  were  a  couple  of  benches.  In 
the  chair  was  the  high  bailiff,  one  Timothy 
Mallet,  the  wheelwright.  Opposite,  on  a 
low  stool,  with  a  many  papers,  and  two  or 
three  huge  books  before  him,  sat  the  dimin- 
utive form  of  Jemmy  Catchpole,  the  town 
lawyer,  who  was  said  to  be  so  learned  in  the 
law  as  to  be  fitter  to  be  a  judge  of  assize 
than  any  living.  His  sharp  grey  eyes 
twinkled  with  a  perpetual  restlessness,  and 
his  parchment-skin  seemed  growing  of  a 
deeper  yellow,  as,  with  a  pen  in  his  hand, 
he  watched  or  made  notes  of  the  matter  pro- 
ceeding. On  each  side  were  seated  such 
of  the  aldermen  as  attended,  likewise  others 
of  the  corporation  who  were  not  of  the  al- 
dermen; and  Master  Alderman  Mahiisey, 
with  his  purple  in-grain  countenance  and 
very  puncheon  of  a  person,  who  affected  the 
orator  in  no  small  measure,  was  on  his 
legs,  if  such  round  things  as  he  had  might 
be  so  called,  denouncing  with  a  monstrous 
vehemency  a  motion,  then  under  discussion, 
for  repairing  the  parish  well.  Some  listened 
to  him  attentively,  others  were  conversing 
apart;  but  it  might  have  been  noted,  that  a 
few  wore  aspects  so  anxious  as  plainly 
showed  tlieir  minds  were  intent  on  another 
matter.  His  argiunent  was  to  the  eifect, 
that  water  was  a  thing  which  all  honest 
men  ought  to  eschew,  unless  as  at  the  mar- 
riage at  Cana  it  could  be  turned  into  wine, 
and  that  wine  was  a  thing  most  absolute 
and  necessary  to  a  man's  well  doing  ;  there- 
fore, it  would  be  much  better  to  buy  a  pipe 
of  such  fine  hippocras  as  he  could  sell  them, 
for  the  use  of  the  corporation,  than  to  apply 
any  of  its  funds  for  the  repairing  of  so  un- 
profitable a  thing  as  a  well.  At  this,  up- 
started at  once  a  baker  and  a  butcher, 
swearing  with  equal  vehemency,  that  no- 
thing was  so  necessary  as  plenty  of  bread 
and  meat,  and  advocating  the  greater  lauda- 
bleness  of  laying  in  a  store  of  such  victual, 
which  they  could  not  do  better  than  have  of 
them,  to  wasting  the  corporation  funds  in 
the  project  that  had  so  injudiciously  been 
proposed.  Others  might  have  followed  in  a 
like  strain,  but  at  this  instant  John  Shaks- 
peare,  who  had  waited  with  his  stock  of  pa- 
tience getting  to  be  less  and  less  every  mo- 
ment, now  rose,  and  with  his  honest  face 
somewhat  pale  and  of  an  uneasy  expression, 
proceeded  to  take  a  share  in  the  debate.  It 
was  noticed,  that  on  liis  rising,  the  few  who 


had  appeared  so  unmindful  of  what  was  go- 
ing on,  looked  marvelously  attentive  ;  and 
the  others,  as  if  curious  to  know  what  one 
so  well  esteemed  had  to  say  on  the  matter, 
were  no  less  careful  listeners. 

"  I  pray  you  lose  not  the  precious  time  in 
such  idle  stuff  as  this,"  exclaimed  he.  "  Wo 
want  your  wisest  counsel.  We  are  threat- 
ened with  such  calamity  as  is  enough  at  the 
mere  thought  of  it,  to  strike  us  dead  with 
fear.  We  cannot  thrust  it  aside.  It  hath 
come  upon  us  unprepared.  All  that  can  be 
done  is  to  endeavor  to  keep  the  mischief  in 
as  narrow  a  compass  as  may  be  possible. 
Up  and  be  doing  then,  my  masters,  without 
a  moment's  delaying,  for  the  negligence  of 
one  may  be  the  destruction  of  all." 

At  the  hearing  of  this  discourse,  so  differ- 
ent from  what  all,  excepting  the  anxious 
few,  expected,  the  greater  number  stared  in 
absolute  astonishment,  and  the  rest  waited 
as  if  in  the  expectation  of  hearing  what  was 
to  follow. 

"My  friends  !"  continued  the  speaker,  in 
a  low,  thick  voice,  as  if  he  couid  scarce 
speak,  "  The  plague  is  in  Stratfurd  .'" 

"  The  plague  ?"  exclaimed  many  in  the 
same  moment  of  time,  leaning  forward  from 
their  seats,  breathless  with  horror  and  sur- 
prise. 

"  I  would  to  God  there  could  be  a  doubt 
of  it !"  replied  John  Shakspeare.  "  My 
worthy  and  approved  good  friend,  Master 
Combe,  of  whose  honorableness  there  can 
be  none  here  present  who  have  not  had 
excellent  evidence,  hath,  in  one  of  the  mani- 
fold generous  offices  he  is  ever  intent  upon 
doing  to  his  poorer  neighbors,  made  this 
doleful  discovery ;  and  with  the  advice  of 
divers  of  the  most  experienced  of  my  fellow 
burgesses,  who  alone  knew  of  it  from  me,  I 
have  had  you  here  assembled,  that  you  might 
learn  from  him  the  exact  truth,  and  then 
consider  amongst  yourselves  which  will  be 
the  fittest  way  of  providing  for  the  common 
safety." 

At  this  there   was  a   dead  silence ;  and 

when  Master  Combe  stood  up,  every  eye 

!  was  strained  to  scrutinize  him,  and  every 

I  ear  stretched  forward  to  hear  the  most  dis- 

i  tinctly  the  promised  communication. 

"  I  pray  you,  my  worthy  neighbors  and 
friends,  fear  nothing  !"  exclaimed  John  a 
Combe  ;  "  fear  will  only  make  you  the  vic- 
tim of  what  you  dread  ;  but  courage  and 
good  conduct  will  help  you  to  drive  the  pes- 
tilence from  your  door.  That  it  doth  exist 
amongst  us,  I  wouldl  could  doubt ;  and  this 
is  how  I  came  at  the  knowledge  of  it.  Hear- 
ing that  there  was  a  poor  family  visited  witli 
:  a  sudden  sickness,  of  wliich  some  were  like 


SB 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


to  die  had  they  not  help  presently,  I  speeded  | 
thither  with  what  medicine  I  usually  carry 
on  such  occasions  knowing  them  to  be  of 
special  benefit  in  divers  disorders.  In  a  low 
cottage,  ruinous,  and  exceeding  dirty,  1  came 
upon  tlie  sufferers.  As  God  me  save,  1 
there  saw  a  sight  such  as  I  iiave  not  seen  in 
my  wlioie  life  before  ;  and  trust  in  Jesu 
never  to  see  again.  I  entered  at  the  kitchen, 
where,  in  one  comer,  on  a  litter  of  rushes,  I 
beheld  one  dead,  the  father  of  this  wTCtched 
family,  and,  by  his  side,  his  wife  in  the  last 
agonies ;  the  fixed  stare  of  whose  yelhnv 
eyeballs  settling  into  deatli,  I  saw  at  a 
glance  made  all  help  of  medicine  out  of  the 
case.  A  babe  was  crawling  on  the  floor 
towards  her ;  but  it  had  a  sickly  look  with 
it  that  was  ghastly  to  see.  In  anotiier  cor- 
ner was  a  young  girl  dead  also,  her  fair  face 
getting  to  be  discolored  and  unsightly  ;  and 
in  a  chair  was  a  boy  who,  by  his  dress,  I 
knew  was  used  to  labor  in  the  fields,  and  he 
complained  he  felt  so  deadly  bad  lie  could 
not  return  to  his  work.  I  went  into  another 
chamber,  where  was  the  old  grannam,  lying 
npon  a  truckle  bed,  moaning  terribly,  but 
saying  nought ;  and  doubled  up  at  her  feet 
was  the  figure  of  another  ancient  dame,  who 
had  been  her  nurse  till  she  dropped  where 
she  was,  and  could  not  be  got  to  move  hand 
or  foot.  I  was  informed,  by  a  charitable 
neighbor  who  came  in  with  me,  that  this  ill- 
ness had  only  appe-ared  amongst  them  since 
the  preceding  night,  soon  after  unpacking  of 
a  parcel  they  had  received  by  the  carrier 
from  some  friends  in  London.  On  hearing 
this  I  had  a  sudden  misgiving,  for  I  had  re- 
ceived certain  intelligence  the  day  previous, 
that  the  pestilence  had  broke  out  there.  My 
heart  was  too  full  to  speak  ;  and  when  I  was 
further  told,  that  in  addition  to  the  inmates 
of  the  cottage,  sundry  of  the  neighbors  who 
had  called  in,  hearing  of  tiieir  sickness,  had 
been  taken  with  a  like;  disorder,  one  of  whom 
had  given  up  the  ghost  not  half  an  hour 
since,  my  suspicion  took  tinner  ground. 
Presently  I  examined  one  of  the  dead.  My 
fears  then  received  terrible  confirmation. 
The  plague  spot  was  ujion  him.  Having 
given  sucli  orders  as  I  thought  necessary, 
without  exciting  any  alarui,  I  fumigated 
myself  well,  and  acquainted  my  good  friend, 
John  Shakspcarc,  with  the  fearful  truth ; 
and  by  his  advice  you  have  iieen  called  here 
to  take  instant  inea;qires  to  i)reveiit  the 
spreading  of  this  direful  calamity.  In  what- 
soever thing  1  may  Ik;  of  service  at  this  un- 
happy tiuie,  I  pray  you  use  me  as  oni;  friend 
would  use  another.  Uelieve  me,  I  will  do  it 
lovingly,  whatever  may  be  required." 
Tliough  the  speaker  concluded  what  ho 


had  tf  say,  for  some  moments'  space  none 
sought  to  interrupt  the  awful  silence  which 
followed,  but  sat  like  so  many  statues  of  fear, 
with  eyes  almost  starting  from  their  sockets, 
mouths  partly  open,  and  big  drops  of  perspi- 
ration standing  upon  their  wrinkled  fore- 
heads. Of  the  most  terrified  was  the  little 
lawyer  upon  the  stool,  who,  leaning  his  el- 
bows on  the  table,  and  with  his  jiointed  cliin 
resting  upon  his  palms,  kept  his  sharp  eyes 
fixed  upon  John  a  Combe,  looking  more 
frightened  as  the  other  proceeded  in  his  nar- 
ration, till  he  gave  voice  to  his  consternation 
in  an  audible  groan.  Presently,  some  began 
to  turn  their  gaze  from  Master  Combe  to 
each  other,  and  finding  in  every  face  the  hor- 
ror so  visible  in  their  own,  they  remained 
stupitied  and  bewildered,  till  one  nigh  unto 
the  door  rushed  out,  and  with  the  look  of  one 
struck  with  a  sudden  frenzy,  ran  home,  shout- 
ing at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  The  plague  !  the 
plague  !"  and  many  others  of  that  assembly, 
put  out  of  all  discretion  by  the  greatness  of 
their  fear,  made  from  the  place  with  as  much 
speed  of  foot  as  the}'  coiild  use,  in  the  hope 
of  securing  the  safety  of  themselves  and  fa- 
milies. They  that  were  left  then  proceeded 
to  take  counsel  among  themselves  what  was 
Attest  to  be  done  ;  and  Master  Combe,  being 
invited  by  them  to  assist  in  their  delibera- 
tions, did  give  such  excellent  advice,  that  it 
was  agreed  to  by  all,  wifh  wonderful  admira- 
tion of  his  wisdom  and  greatness  of  heart  ; 
and  they  sat  for  several  hours  making  reso- 
lutions in  accordance  with  what  he  liad  pro- 
posed. 

"  I  cannot  hear  of  a  denial,"  said  Master 
Combe  to  John  Shakspeare,  as  they  were  re- 
turning together  from  the  hall.  "  This  can 
be  now  no  proper  place  for  your  sweet  wife 
and  her  young  son,  or  any  of  her  family. 
Stay  they  here,  it  must  be  at  the  hazard  of 
their  lives,  for  none  can  say  who  shall  escaj>e ; 
whilst  if  they  se(;k  refuge  in  my  poor  dwell- 
ing till  the  danger  hath  passed,  they  need 
have  communication  witli  none,  and  so  shall 
be  in  no  peril." 

"  In  honest  truth,  I  like  it  well,  Master 
Combe,  iind  am  much  beholden  to  you  for 
your  friendly  care,"  replied  his  companion. 
"Yet  ami  fearful  of  accepting  of  your  cour- 
tesy, thinking  it  may  put  you  to  inconveni- 
ence, and  to  some  danger  al.-io." 

"  Speak  not  of  it,  an'  you  love  me,"  said 
the  other,  v.'ith  a  very  sinci>re  earnestness  ; 
I"  it  is  at  your  entire  disposal,  as  long  as  it 
!  may  be  at  your  need.  As  for  myself, //n"*'  is 
my  place.  Wliilst  so  many  of  my  neighbors 
I  are  in  such  imminent  peril,  here  will  I  remain 
to  do  them  whatever  ollico  may  be  cxjicdient 
I  for  their  good." 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


29 


"  An'  if  it  please  you,  worthy  sir,  I  will  as- 
sist yon  with  wliat  humble  ability  I  have," 
added  John  Shakspoare  ;  '•  I  will  take  order 
that  my  dame  and  her  babe  proceed  forthwith, 
with  their  attendants,  to  the  security  pro- 
vided for  them  ;  for  which  sweet  kindness  I 
and  mine  shall  feel  bound  to  you  ever  after, 
and  will  make  provision  for  her  having  all 
things  necessary ;  and  then  I  will  liold  my- 
self in  readiness  to  do  whatsoever  you  shall 
tliink  fittest." 

"  I  would  accept  of  no  help  in  this  matter 
sooner  tlian  your  own,"  answered  JMaster 
Cornbs ;  '•  knowing  your  thorough  honesty 
and  well  disposedness,  as  I  do ;  yet,  methinks 
you  shall  tind  sufficient  in  this  strait  to  watcli 
over  the  safety  of  those  dearest  to  you,  and 
cannot  advisedly,  when  they  are  looking  to 
you  for  help,  put  your  life  in  jeopardy  for  the 
security  of  others." 

"  Nay,  by  your  leave.  Master  Combe, 
though  I  am  no  scholar,  I  cannot  allow  of 
that,"  exclaimed  John  Shakspeare,  v>ith  some 
eagerness  ;  methinks  my  duty  to  my  neigh- 
bors calleth  ms  to  their  assistance  when  they 
shall  require  it  of  me,  quite  as  loudly  as  it 
may  yourself." 

"  But  forget  you  how  many  are  dependant 
on  your  exertions  for  an  honest  living,  which 
is  not  my  case,"  answered  his  companion. 

"  I  will  see  to  their  safety,  and  I  will  look 
with  as  much  care  as  I  may  to  my  own,"  said 
the  other  earnestly  ;  "  but,  in  mine  own  opi- 
nion, I  should  be  deserving  of  the  good  will 
of  none,  were  I  to  slink  away  when  danger 
was  at  the  heels  of  my  friends,  and  leave 
them  to  stand  it  as  they  might,  wliilst  I  cared 
only  for  the  safety  of  myself  and  what  be- 
longed to  me." 

"  Your  hand,  honest  John  Shakspeare  !" 
cried  Master  Combe,  shaking  his  friend's 
hand  very  heartily  in  his  own.  "  Believe  me, 
I  love  you  all  the  better  for  having  such  no- 
tions. But  I  must  down  this  lane,"  conti- 
nued he,  as  they  stood  together  at  the  corner. 
"  I  beseech  j-ou  hasten  your  sweet  wife  as 
much  as  you  can,  that  she  may  out  of  the 
town  witli  as  little  delay  as  need  be  at  such  a 
time,  and  I  will  with  all  convenient  speed  to 
my  house  to  prepare  for  iier  reception.  A  fair 
good  night  to  you,  neighbor." 

"  God  speed  you,  worthy  sir,  in  all  you 
do !"  exclaimed  the  other,  with  the  same 
friendly  feeling,  as  Master  Combe  proceeded 
on  his  vv-ay.  "  There  wends  as  good  a  man 
as  ever  broke  bread  ["continued  lie,  when  the 
object  of  his  praise  was  out  of  hearing  ;  and 
he  stood  where  he  was  for  some  minutes, 
leaning  on  his  staff,  with  his  honest  heart 
full  of  admiration,  watching  tlie  progress  of 
his  companion,  till  a  turning  of  tiie  lane  liid 


him  from  his  view.  It  was  now  just  up  on 
twiliglit,  and  the  lane  being  bordered  by  tall 
trees,  closely  planted  and  in  their  fullest  foli- 
age, a  great  portion  of  it  was  in  deep  shadow  ; 
but  this  seemed  only  to  make  more  fresh  and 
vivid  the  high  bank  on  the  other  side  which 
led  up  into  a  cornfield,  whereof  the  rich  yel- 
low ears,  and  the  crimson  poppies  blushing 
beneath  them,  as  seen  in  every  gap  of  the 
hedge,  gave  promise  of  abundant  harvest ; 
and  the  hedge,  being  of  elder  in  great  patches 
of  blossom,  looked  at  a  distance  like  unto 
pure  white  linen  a  drying  on  the  green 
branches.  John  a  Combe,  as  he  walked 
along,  noticing  the  quick  movements  cjf  the 
bats,  whirling  here  and  there  in  quest  of  such 
insects  as  formed  their  victual,  on  a  sudden 
had  his  eye  attracted  by  a  gleam  of  light  on 
the  opposite  bank,  which  at  first  he  took  to 
be  a  glow-worm,  but  the  next  moment  distin- 
guished a  large  black  mass  moving  in  the 
deep  shadow ;  the  which  he  had  scarce  made 
out  to  be  the  figure  of  a  man,  ^vhen  two  men, 
armed  and  masked,  rushed  upon  him  from 
that  very  spot.  As  quick  as  lightning  his 
rapier  was  out  and  he  on  his  defence.  A 
muttered  execration  was  all  he  heard,  as  they 
came  upon  him  both  at  once,  in  such  a  sort 
as  proved  they  would  have  his  life  if  they 
could.  John  a  Combo  was  on  the  brink  of  a 
dry  ditch,  and  within  a  few  yards  of  a  gate 
leading  to  the  cornfield,  over  against  which 
was  an  opening  in  the  trees  that  gave  a  fair 
light  to  see  all  around  ;  and  for  this  he  made, 
defending  himself  the  wliilst  so  briskly,  that 
neither  of  his  opponents  could  get  him  at  an 
advantage.  Here  having  got  himself  with- 
out hurt  of  any  kind,  he  put  his  back  to  the 
gate,  and  now,  seeing  that  he  had  before  him 
two  stout  varlets  in  masks,  v/ho  pressed  on 
him  as  though  they  v.'oukl  not  be  baffled  in 
their  aims,  he  presently  put  forth  what  cun- 
ning of  fence  he  had,  and  so  nimble  was  his 
steel,  and  so  quick  his  movements,  that  he 
avoided  every  thrust.  This,  hovv^ever,  only 
seemed  to  make  them  the  more  savage  and 
desperate,  and  they  pressed  closer  upon  him. 
What  might  have  been  the  end  on't,  liad 
things  gone  on,  I  cannot  take  on  me  to  deter- 
mine ;  but  the  conflict  was  stopped  much 
sooner  than  was  expected  of  any,  for  one  of 
the  two  was  felled  to  the  earth  from  an  un- 
seen hand,  and  the  other  varlet  at  the  same 
moment  got  such  a  thrust  in  his  wrist  as 
made  him  incapable  of  any  mischief 

"  Lie  there,  caitiff!"  exclaimed  John  Shak- 
speare, wlio,  loitering  at  the  top  of  the  lane, 
had  heard  the  clash  of  the  weapons,  and  has- 
tening to  the  spot  had  come  in  time  to  deal 
a  blow  with  his  staff  that  rid  his  friend  of  the 
fiercest  of  his  assailants.    "  Lie  there  for  a 


30 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


pitiful  coward,  and  a  knave  to  boot.  I  doubt 
not  hanging  be  too  good  for  thee,  tliou  mur- 
derous \nllain,  to  seek  the  Wk  of  one  of  so 
excellent  a  nnture.  But  thou  hast  not  done 
amiss  in  hiding  of  thy  face,  for  I  warrant  we 
shall  find  rascal  writ  in  every  line  of  it.  As 
I  live.  Master  Buzzard  I"  cried  he,  in  some 
surprise,  as  ho  took  off  the  mask  of  him  he 
had  knocked  down. 

"  And  here  have  we  no  bigger  a  villain  to 
help  him  than  his  man  Saul !"  exclaimed 
John  a  Combe,  as  he  tore  off  the  visor  of  the 
other.  Master  Buzzard  came  to  himself  pre- 
sently, for  he  was  but  little  hurt,  and  finding 
he  had  been  completely  baffled,  he  said  never 
a  word.  As  .';oon  as  he  regained  his  footing, 
with  a  look  of  devilish  malignity  he  took  him- 
self off,  leaving  his  man  to  follow  as  he  best 
migiit.  Neither  received  hindrance  from 
Master  Combe  or  his  trusty  friend,  who  were 
in  truth  monstrous  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  com- 
pany of  such  thorough  paced  villains. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

And  what's  a  life  ?    A  weary  pilgrimage, 
Whose  glory  in  one  day  doth  till  the  stage 
With  childhood,  manhood,  and  decrepit  age. 
And  wliat's  a  life  I    The  Hourisliing  array 
Of  t lie  proud  sunnuer  meadow,  which,  to-day, 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow — hay. 

QUARLES. 

How  now  !  Ah  me  I 
God  and  all  saints  be  good  to  us  ! 

Ben  Jonson. 

Deatli  may  usurp  on  nature  many  hours. 
And  yet  the  fire  of  life  kindle  again 
The  overpressed  spirits. 

Shakspeaue. 

The  house  of  John  a  Combe,  so  hand- 
somely offered  by  him  for  the  reception  of 
Dame  fShakspeare  and  her  infant  son,  lay 
about  a  mile  irom  Stratfoni,  the  nighcst  way 
across  tlie  fields  ;  and  had  been  built  some 
twenty  years  in  a  famous  rpiaint  pretty  style, 
with  projecting  gables,  curiously  formed  and 
carved  ;  a  latticed  porch,  whereon  all  man- 
ner of  delicate  flowers  were  climbing  very 
daintily,  and  it  was  enclosed  with  its  garden 
in  a  high  wall  that  had  iron  gates,  in  an  arch- 
way in  front,  from  wiiich  a  broail  path  led  on 
each  side  of  a  well-kept  lawn  right  up  to  the 
house. 

Daino  Shakspeare  had  a  famous  fire  of 
good  logs  burning  in  her  chamber,  the  light 
whereof' shewed  the  g(Jodly  hangings  of  the 
bed,  and  rich  arras  brought  from  beyond  seas 
that  were  about  the  wainscot,  with  all  the 


store  of  needful  furniture  in  high  presses, 
cupboards,  chairs,  tables,  and  the  like,  ex- 
quisitely car\ed  in  choice  woods  that  stood 
around  her  on  every  side.  The  good  dame, 
clad  in  a  simple  long  garment  of  linen  that 
wrapt  her  all  around,  sat  at  some  short  dis- 
tance from  the  fire-dogs,  knitting  of  a  pair 
of  hose,  wliilst  over  against  lier  sat  nurse 
Cicely,  with  the  babe  in  her  lap,  the  front  of 
his  white  frock  hid  under  a  dowlas  cloth, 
that  was  carefully  tucked  under  his  chin, 
feeding  him  with  a  pap-spoon.  Nurse  talked 
on  without  ceasing,  gossipping  to  the  mother 
and  pratthng  to  the  babe,  all  in  a  breath  ; 
but  Dame  Shakspeare  scarce  spoke  a  word. 
Indeed,  her  thoughts  were  in  a  strange  mis- 
giving liumor,  fearing  for  the  present,  and 
doubting  of  the  future,  till  her  eye  would 
light  on  her  sweet  son  ;  and  then  noticing  of 
his  exceeding  happiness  at  what  he  was 
about,  her  aspect  would  catch  a  sudden 
brightness,  and  mayhap  she  would  say  some- 
thing is  if  there  was  nought  to  trouble  her. 

"  Of  those  who  are  dead  some  say  there 
is  no  knowing  for  the  number,"  continued 
nurse.  "  They  die  out  of  all  calcidation  ; 
not  here  and  there  one,  as  in  honest  fashion 
they  should,  but  everywhere  .scores.  Hum- 
phrey heard  at  the  gate,  of  Oliver  Dumps, 
that  lliey  went  so  fast,  it  was  supposed  there 
would  soon  be  none  left  to  tend  the  sick. — 
Ods  lifelings,  what  an  appetite  thou  hast !" 
added  she,  as  she  kept  feeding  of  the  child. 
"  Beshrew  my  heart,  but  thou  wouldst  eat  up 
house  and  home  kept  thou  this  fashion  at  all 
times.  Well,  it's  all  one.  They  that  are 
dead  cannot  lielp  themselves  ;  and  lor  the 
living  they  must  trust  in  God"s  mercy.  How 
now,  chuck  ?  What,  more  !  Well,  heaven 
send  thee  good  store  of  victuals  !  By  my 
troth,  methinks  Master  Combe  sliall  deserve 
well  of  us  all  our  days.  As  for  myself,  I 
wish  I  could  know  the  service  I  might  do  his 
worship,  1  would  not  spare  my  old  bones,  I 
promise  you.  He  liath  been  a  mean  lor  tlie 
preserving  of  our  lives,  that  be  a  sure  thing; 
lor  it  standeth  to  reason,  had  we  remained  in 
the  town,  we  should  have  been  no  better  tliiui 
loathsome  corpses  long  since." 

Dame  Shakspeare  replied  not^  but  her  na- 
ture was  too  forcibly  impressed  witli  tiie 
load  of  obligation  she  lay  under,  not  to  as- 
sent to  all  her  attendant  would  express  on 
that  point. 

"  And  thou  hast  especial  reason  to  bo 
thankful  to  him,  my  yoiuig  master,"  con- 
tinued the  old  woman  to  lier  charge;  "  by'r 
lady,  thou  hadst  best  make  haste  to  be  a 
man,  and  shew  his  worsiiip  how  grateful  of 
heart  thou  art  for  his  goodness.  And  then 
to  put   us  all  in  so  delectable  a  place  as 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


31 


this,"  added  she,  looking  round  the  chamber 
in  evident  admiration.  "  O'  my  Ufe,  'tis  a 
house  tit  for  a  prince,  and  it  hatli  in  it  every 
thing  that  heart  could  desire.  This  is  his 
worship's  own  bed-chamber,  as  I  have  heard. 
Happy  the  woman  who  shall  have  tlie  own- 
ino-  of  it,  say  I !  I  protest  when  I  hear  how 
nobly  he  hath  borne  himself  throughout  the 
dreadful  raging  of  this  doleful  pestilence,  I 
am  clean  lost  in  wonder  and  astonislunent 
at  his  infinite  goodness." 

"  Surely,  nurse,  it  must  be  somewhat  be- 
yond the  time  they  usually  come?"  here  ex- 
claimed Dame  Shakspeare  ;  "  I  hope  nought 
amiss  hath  happened  to  either,  and  yet  I 
fear.  Alack,  it  would  go  hard  with  me 
were  I  to  lose  my  husband;  and  Master 
Combe  hath  showed  liimself  so  true  a  friend 
I  could  not  but  grieve  at  his  loss.  I  pray 
God,  very  heartily,  both  are  safe." 

"  Amen  I"  said  the  nurse  very  devoutly. 
"  But  keep  up  a  good  heart,  I  pray  you, 
mistress.  I  would  wager  my  lite  on't  no 
harm  shall  happen  to  them.  They  must 
needs  be  much  too  useful  to  be  spared  when 
such  pitiful  work  is  going  forward.  But 
concerning  of  the  time  of  their  usual  com- 
ing, I  cannot  think  it  hath  yet  arrived, 
though  mayhap  it  shall  be  found  to  be  no 
great  way  oft".  Perad\-enture,  rest  you  pati- 
ent awhile,  you  shall  hear  Humphrey  give 
us  note  of  their  approach  before  long.  Ha ! 
my  young  rogue!"  continued  she,  address- 
ing the  babe,  and  fondling  Mm  very  prettily, 
upon  iinding  he  would  take  no  more  of  her 
food.  "  I  warrant  me  now  thou  hast  had  a 
famous  meal !  Art  not  ashamed  to  devour 
such  monstrous  quantities,  when  victual  is 
so  scarce  to  be  had  ?  O'  my  conscience,  he 
laughed  in  my  very  face !  By  your  pati- 
ence, mistress,  this  son  of  yours  is  no  other 
than  a  very  horrible  young  reprobate,  for  he 
seemeth  to  care  for  nought  when  he  hath  all 
that  he  standeth  in  need  of." 

"  Bless  his  dear  lieart !"  cried  the  much 
delighted  mother,  rousing  up  from  her  me- 
lancholy at  sight  of  lier  babe's  enjoyment. 
"  It  glads  me  more  than  I  can  speak  to  see 
him  looking  so  hearty,  and  in  so  rare  a 
humor.  But  I  nuist  to  the  casement,  I  am 
impatient  of  this  seeming  long  delay ;"  and 
so  saying  she  suddenly  rose  trom  her  seat, 
and  made  for  the  window,  a  broad  casement 
which  looked  out  over  the  porch,  for  tiie 
chamber  was  above  tlie  ground-ftoor,  and 
opening  it  she  leaned  out  to  watch  lor  her 
husband.  The  night  had  set  in,  though  it 
was  scarce  eight  of  the  clock  ;  but  being  the 
latter  end  of  October  that  was  no  marvel. 
Dark  clouds  were  hoating  heavily  in  the 
sky,  and  the  trees,  though  half  denuded  of 


their  foliage,  made  a  famous  rustling  as  the 
wind  came  sweeping  among  their  branches. 
Every  thing  looked  indistinct  and  shadowy 
within  the  range  of  siglit,  and  beyond,  all 
seemed  as  tliough  closely  wrapt  up  in  a 
shroud.  Certes,  to  one  of  Dame  !Shaksj)eare's 
disposition,  the  prospect  around  must  have 
appeared  wonderful  melancholy,  and  it  gave 
a  chill  to  her  heart  that  tilled  her  with  mon- 
strous disquietude.  All  was  in  perfect  silence 
and  solitude,  save  down  below,  where  Hum- 
phrey, armed  with  a  rusty  harquebus,  was 
marching  to  and  fro  within  the  gate,  of 
which  station  he  was  exceeding  proud,  as 
j  was  manifest ;  for,  immediately  he  caugiit 
sight  of  his  mistress  at  the  casement,  he 
i  held  liis  piece  Mrm  to  his  side,  made  himself 
1  look  as  tall  as  he  might,  and  with  a  terrible 
I  valorous  countenance,  as  he  supposed,  con- 
t  tinned  to  walk  backwards  and  lorwards  at 
his  post. 

"  Hast  seen  any  thing,  Humphrey  ?"  in- 
quired Dame  Shakspeare. 

'•  Yes,  mistress,  an'it  please  you,"  replied 
he,  stopping  short  in  his  walk,  and  holding 
of  himself  as  upright  as  any  dart.  "  I  have 
seen  old  Granuner  Lambswool's  two  sandy 
colored  pigs  making  for  home  v>ith  all  the 
speed  of  foot  they  were  master  of." 

"  Psha !  hast  seen  any  thing  of  thy  mas- 
ter ?"  added  the  good  dame. 

"  No,  mistress,'  answered  he. 

"  Hast  seen  ought  of  Master  Combe  ?" 

"  No,  mistiness." 

Hearing  no  further  questioning;  Hum- 
phrey continued  his  marcliing  ;  and  his  mis- 
tress, in  no  way  satisfied  v/ith  his  intelhgence, 
remained  at  the  casement  silent  and  ab- 
stracted. She  could  hear  nurse  Cicely 
walking  up  and  down  the  chamber,  evidently 
by  her  speech  and  occasional  hmnming  striv- 
ing to  get  the  boy  into  a  sleep. 

"  Well,  never  saw  I  the  like!"  exclaimed 
Cicely,  in  tones  of  such  monstrous  astonish- 
ment as  drew  the  mother's  attention  in  an 
instant.  "  Instead  of  getting  into  a  good 
sound  sleep  as  I  was  assured  thou  hadst 
fallen  into,  I  know  not  how  long  since,  here 
art  thou  as  wide  awake  as  am  1,  and  listen- 
ing to  my  poor  singing  with  a  look  as  if  thy 
very  heart  was  in  it."  Certes,  it  was  as  the 
nurse  had  said.  The  babe  lay  in  her  arms, 
seeming  in  such  strange  wonder  and  de- 
lights as  surely  no  babe  ever  showed  before. 
Even  Dame  Shakspeare  marveled  somewhat 
to  note  the  amazed  smiling  aspect  of  her 
young  son. 

"  By  my  fay  !"  continued  the  old  woman, 
"  if  this  babe  come  not  to  be  some  great  mas- 
ter of  music,  I  am  hugely  mistaken  in  him. 
I  remember  me  now,  tiiis  is  the  first  time  I 


TIIE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


have  chanced  to  sinjT  in  his  hearing. — Marrj-, 
an'  if  his  worship  be  so  taken  with  my  music, 
I  warrant  me  he  sliaU  have  a  rare  plenty  of 
it,  for  1  have  as  famous  a  store  of  ballads  as 
any  woman  in  Warwickshire." 

"  I  doubt  not  they  will  bo  well  liked  of 
him,  judging  of  the  manner  he  hath  taken  the 
tu-st  he  hatli  heard,"  observed  his  mother. 

At  tills  moment  there  was  heard  such 
horrible  unnatural  screaming  and  strange 
uproar,  that  made  Dame  Shakspeare,  more 
full  of  misgiving  than  ever,  rushed  back  to  the 
casement  with  as  much  sjjeed  us  she  could 
use-  The  tir-t  object  that  met  her  eye  was 
no  other  than  Humphrey,  half  lying  on  the 
ground,  supporting  himself  with  one  arm, 
and  one  leg  doubled  under  him,  and  with 
the  other  hand  holding  in  his  trembling 
grasp  the  harquebus  he  made  so  brave  a 
show  with  a  few  minutes  since.  lie  was 
shaking  in  every  limb;  his  hat  had  fallen 
off,  leaving  his  face  the  more  visible,  which 
bore  an  aspect  of  the  completest  fright  ever 
seen.  His  eyes  were  starting-  forward,  his 
cheeks  pale,  and  his  mouth  half  open,  one 
jaw  knocking  against  the  other  as  hard  as 
tliey  could.  Turning  her  gaze  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  Ijoy  was  staring,  as  if  in- 
capable of  moving  away  his  eyes,  though 
for  a  single  instant,  she  saw  a  sight  tlie  hor- 
ribleness  of  whicii  made  her  scream  out- 
right. It  was  a  spectral  figure  at  the  gate, 
with  long  hare  arms  and  legs,  all  livid  and 
gastly,  and  a  face  that  seemed  more  terrible 
to  look  on  than  death  itself.  The  pesti- 
lence in  its  worst  stage  was  apparent  in 
every  feature  ;  and  the  glaring  eye,  blue 
skin,  gaunt  jaw,  and  ragged  beard,  were 
more  distinguishable  for  the  sheet  in  which 
the  head  and  part  of  the  body  w^cre  wrapped. 
He  shook  the  iron  bars  of  the  gate  as  if  lie 
would  have  them  down,  and  tried  to  climb 
them,  all  the  whilst  giving  out  such  piercing- 
shrieks  as  made  the  blood  run  cold  to  hear. 
"  Jesu  preserve  tlie  child  !"  exclaimed  the 
terrified  mother. 

'•  Flames  and  the  rack  !"  shouted  a  hollow 
scpulcliral  voice,  as  ho  shook  the  iron  bars 
again  and  again.  "  Hell  rages  in  my  every 
vein  !  Fires  eat  into  my  heart !  O  mercy  !" 
Then  arose  anotiier  scream  more  wild  and 
piercing  than  any  that  had  preceded  it,  and 
the  poor  wretch  Hung  his  head  about,  and 
twisted  his  limbs,  as  il  in  tiie  horriblest  torture. 
"  Drive  him  away,  good  Humphrey !" 
cried  Dame  Shakspeare,  the  sense  of  her 
child's  danger  overcoming  all  other  feelings 
in  her. 

"  Ve — ye — ye — yes,  mistress  !"  answered 
Humphrey  as  plainly  as  his  fright  would 
allow  him,  but  moved  he  never  an  inch. 


'•Oh,  good  God!"  slirieked  the  diseased 
man  in  his  phrenzy.  "  Oh,  the  Infinite 
Great  One !  This  is  the  day  of  doom  !  Hide 
— hide,  ye  wicked ! — the  ministers  of  judg- 
ment compass  ye  all  about.  There  is  no 
'scape  from  the  consuming  fire.  It  scorches 
my  flesh — it  burneth  my  bones  to  ashes. 
Ah !"  and  again  the  same  horrible  yell  pierced 
the  air  as  he  writhed  under  his  pain?. 

"  Humphrey,  I  say,  drive  him  away,  I 
prithee  !"  cried  the  frightened  mother  more 
(iarnestly  than  at  first.  "  Alack !  if  he 
should  break  in  now  we  are  clean  lost !" 

"  Ye — ye — yes,  mistress,"  muttered  Hum- 
phrey, but  he  sought  not  to  move  eitiier  his 
eyes  from  the  man,  or  his  limbs  from  the 
ground.  Ilou'ever,  it  did  so  fall  out,  that 
the  terrible  cause  of  all  their  fear,  after 
spending  of  his  strength  in  vainly  essaying 
to  slrake  down  the  gates,  screaming  and 
calling  after  the  fashion  that  hath  been  told, 
in  the  height  of  his  frenzy  fell  from  the 
place  he  had  climbed  to  down  to  the  hard 
ground  within  the  walls,  where,  after  twist- 
ing himself  about  for  some  few  seconds  in 
the  hurriblcst  contortions,  and  shrieking  as  if 
in  the  last  agonies,  he  finally  lay  stiff,  silent, 
and  manifestly  dead. 

"  Humphrey  !  Humphrey  !  get  you  in 
doors  tliis  instant,"  exclaimed  his  mistress 
in  a  manner  as  though  she  scarce  knew 
what  she  said.  Then  wringing  of  her  hands 
exceeding  pitifully,  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice, 
"  Woe  is  me !  the  plague  will  be  upon  us, 
and  no  remedy." 

Dame  Shakspe-are  had  called  to  Humphrey 
many  times,  and  though  he  answered  her  at 
first,  he  paid  but  small  attention  to  her  com- 
mands; but  when  the  frightful  object  got 
within  the  walls,  he  did  nought  but  keep  re- 
garding of  his  motions  with  an  uneasy  stare, 
as  if  his  wits  had  clean  gone  ;  and  now  his 
mistress  again  c:Uled  to  him,  he  moved  not, 
nor  spoke  a  word,  nor  gave  any  sign,  save 
the  loud  chattering  of  his  teeth,  th:it  he  was 
one  of  the  living.  Presently  tiiere  was  heard 
the  sound  as  of  sundry  persons,  running,  and 
ere  any  very  long  time  there  appeared  at  tlie 
gate  divers  of  the  town  watch,  and  others, 
with  torches  and  lanterns,  armed  witli  long 
staves  and  other  weapons. 

"  Get  you  in,  dame,  I  pray  you,  and  shut 
to  the  casement,"  cried  Master  Combe  from 
among  them. 

"  In  with  you,  in  God's  name,  or  you  are 
lost!"  almost  at  the  same  moment  of  time 
shouted  John  ShaksjMiare ;  and  his  wife, 
witli  a  hurried  ejaculation  of  her  great  com- 
fort at  hearing  of  their  voices,  did  as  she 
was  bid,  and  sunk  into  a  chair  more  deiul 
than  alive. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


33 


"  I  would  rather  have  given  a  thousand 
bounds  than  he  should  have  escaped,"  said 
Master  Combe.  "  I  pray  God  no  harm  come 
of  it  to  your  sweet  wife  and  children." 

"  I  cannot  help  but  fear,  the  peril  is  so 
great,"  replied  John  Shakspeare  in  a  some- 
what desponding  tone. 

"  Lord  ha'  mercy  upon  us !"  muttered  a 
voice  not  far  off  of  them. 

"  As  I  live,  'tis  my  knave  Humphrey !" 
exclaimed  his  master,  looking  through  the 
bars  of  the  gate.  "  Why  how  now  !  what 
art  doing  there  ?  Get  thee  in  by  the  back 
way  on  the  instant,  and  stir  not  while  we 
are  gone." 

"  La,  what,  be  that  you,  master,  indeed  ?" 
cried  out  Humphrey  with  a  sort  of  foolish 
joy,  as  he  recognized  the  voice. 

"  Get  thee  in,  I  tell  thee  !"  replied  the 
other  sharply,  and  Humphrey  not  caring  to 
take  another  look  at  tlie  dead  man,  walked 
himself  off,  and  soon  disappeared  behind  the 
house ;  whereupon  his  master  with  a  key  he 
liad,  opened  the  gate,  and  by  the  directions 
of  Master  Combe,  the  corpse  was  presently 
placed  upon  a  hand-barrow  and  carried 
away  by  the  watchmen ;  then  a  fire  of  dry 
sticks  was  made  on  the  spot  where  it  had 
fallen,  in  which  certain  aromatics  were 
flung,  which  made  a  cloud  of  smoke  that 
filled  the  air  all  round  about  for  a  great 
space.  Ai'ter  it  had  burned  some  time, 
John  Shakspeare  called  to  his  wife  tha.t  she 
might  ope  the  casement,  and  she  waited  no 
second  calling.  Then  passed  they  nigh 
upon  an  liour  in  very  comfortable  discourse 
one  with  another,  as  if  it  was  a  customary 
thing  of  them,  she  leaning  out  of  the  cham- 
ber, and  her  husband  and  worth}'  Master 
Combe  standing  upon  the  lawn  beneatli, 
closely  wrapped  up  in  long  cloaks,  and  car- 
rying lighted  torches  in  tlieir  hands. 

'•  I  cannot  express  to  you  iiow  glad  I  am 
lo  hear  of  the  abating  of  the  pestilence," 
said  Dame  Shakspeare.  '•  'Tis  the  pleasant- 
est  news  I  have  heard  this  many  a  day. 
But  think  you  it  may  be  relied  on  ?" 

"  I  have  taken  the  very  surest  means  of 
proving  its  perfect  credibleness,"  answered 
Master  Combe. 

"  Not  so  many  have  died  of  it  to-day  by 
twenty  as  died  yesterday,"  added  her  hus- 
band ;  "  and  yesterday  we  buried  ten  less 
than  the  day  before." 

"  I  am  intinitely  thankful !"  exclaimed  she 
in  a  famous  cheerfulness.  "  I  heartily  pray 
it  may  continue  so." 

"  So  do  we  all,  sweet  dame,"  answered 
Master  Combe.  "And  I  have  good  assu- 
rance, now  we  are  blessed  with  the  prayers 
of  one  so  worthy,  we  cannot  help  but  speed 


in  our  endeavors.  But  the  night  wears  on 
apace.  I  pray  yoir  pardon  me  for  hurrying 
away  your  husband.  O'  my  life  I  would  not 
do  it,  only  we  have  that  to  looic  to  this  night, 
which  cannot  be  done  without  him." 

"  Ay,  Dame,  we  must  be  going,"  added  her 
liusband.  "  So  a  good  sweet  rest  to  thee, 
and  kiss  my  boy  lovingly  for  me  I  prithee." 

"  That  will  I  dear  heart,  without  fail," 
answered  she.  "  And  a  fair  good  night  to 
you  both,  and  ma^/  God  above  preserve  you 
in  all  perils." 

•*  Good  night,  svv'cet  dame,  and  infinite 
thanks  for  your  kind  wishes,"  said  Master 
Combe ;  and  then  he  and  his  associated  left 
the  house,  locking  the  gates  after  tliem; 
and  proceeded  straiglit  to  the  town. 

Now  was  tliere  a  wonderful  difference  in 
this  town  of  Stratford  to  what  it  had  been 
only  a  few  months  since,  v.'hen  I  sought  the 
picturing  of  it ;  for  in  place  of  all  the  pleasant 
riot  of  children  and  general  gossiping  of 
neighbors,  all  was  dumb  as  a  churcliyard ; 
save  at  inten^als,  the  wail  of  the  sorrowful 
or  the  shriek  of  the  dpng  disturbed  the 
awful  stillness.  Scarce  a  living  creature 
was  to  be  seen  excepting  the  watchman 
keeping  guard,  to  whom  divers  of  the  un- 
happy burgesses  would  talk  to  or.t  of  their 
windows,  inquiring  who  of  their  friends  were 
yet  spared,  or  one  or  two  having  been  close 
prisoners  in  their  own  houses,  would  creep 
stealthily  along  the  street  to  breathe  the 
fresher  air,  looking  about  them  su.spiciously 
and  in  great  dread,  and  ready  to  tiy  at  any 
unusual  sound ;  and  instead  of  the  sun 
throwing  its  warm  beams  upon  the  house- 
tops and  other  open  places,  there  war,  a  sul- 
len darkness  everywhere  about,  except  just 
where  one  carried  a  torch  or  a  lantern  with 
him,  which  made  a  faint  red  ligb.t  tlierea- 
bouts,  or  when  the  moon  burst  out  of  the 
deep  black  clouds,  and  disclosed  to  view  the 
deserted  streets  growTi  over  with  patches  of 
rank  grass  ;  the  melancholy  houses, — many 
untenanted  because  of  the  pestilence  having 
spared  none  there, — divers  with  a  red  cross 
upon  their  doors  in  evidence  that  the  plague 
had  there  found  a  victim,  and  the  rest  with 
doors  and  windows  carefully  barred  and 
lights  streaming  through  the  closed  shutters 
— a  glad  sign  that  there  at  least  none  had 
yet  fallen. 

John  Shakspeare  and  Master  Combe, 
closely  wrapped  in  their  cloaks,  entered  the 
principal  street  just  as  the  moon  made  a 
clear  patli  for  herself  in  the  sky,  and  threw 
such  a  light  as  made  them  distinguish  objects 
for  the  time  almost  as  well  as  in  broad  day. 
The   first  person  they   met  was   no  othei 


34 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPE.\RE. 


than  Oliver  Dump.':,  armed  with  a  bill,  and 
wearing  a  face  so  wo-begone  as  was  pitiful 
to  look  on. 

"  Well  Oliver,  what  news  ?"  inquired 
Master  Combe. 

"News!"  exclaimed  the  constable  in  his 
dolefullest  manner.  "  Prithee  what  news 
canst  expect  to  hear  at  such  a  miserable 
time  ?  As  I  am  a  Christian  man,  and  a  sin- 
ful, I  am  nigh  worn  out  with  melancholly. 
What  a  world  is  this  !  Alack,  what  will  be- 
come of  us  '  I  see  no  end  to  the  evil  where- 
of this  town  is  so  full.  We  are  all  villainy 
— very  villainy,  as  I  am  a  Christian  man." 

"  Why  what  hath  happened,  good  Oli- 
ver?" asked  John  Shakspeare. 

"  Wickedness  hath  happened,"  replied 
Oliver  Dumps ;  "  the  very  shamefullest 
wickedness  ever  I  came  a  nigh.  Well  may 
we  be  visited  by  plagues.  Our  natures  are 
vile.  We  run  after  iniquity  as  a  curtail 
dog  runs  i'  the  wheel."  Then,  being  further 
pressed  by  Master  Combe  to  come  to  the 
point,  he  added,  "  First,  there  is  Sir  Nathan- 
iel, who  will  not  be  moved  to  do  any  good 
office  for  the  sick;  and  Master  Buzzard, 
who,  sctteth  his  dogs  at  me,  should  I  venture 
to  ask  of  him  to  assist  his  poor  neighbors. 
Then  Stripes  is  ever  getting  of  money  from 
a  parcel  of  ignorant  wretched  folk  to  con- 
jure the  pestilence  away  from  their  houses; 
added  to  which,  no  longer  ago  than  scarce 
the  half  of  an  hour,  I  came  upon  Simon 
Lumpfish  and  Jonathan  Swiggle,  two  of  the 
town  watch,  in  the  kitchen  of  an  empty 
dwelling,  making  use  of  a  barrel  of  strong 
beer  without  any  color  of  warrant,  by  each 
laying  of  his  length  on  the  tloor,  and  put- 
ting of  his  mouth  to  the  bung-liolc." 

"  They  shall  be  looked  to,"  observed  Mas- 
ter Combc! ;  "  but  come  you  with  us,  good 
Oliver,  perchance  we  may  need  your  assis- 
tance." Then  turning  to  one  of  the  watch, 
who  was  stationed  at  a  door-way,  he  in- 
quired how  things  went  in  his  ward. 

"  One  hath  died  within  this  hour  over  at 
Peter  Giml)let's,  an'  it  please  your  worship," 
answered  the  man  respectfully  ;  "  and  there 
are  two  sick  here  at  Dame  Holloway's. 
They  do  say  tliat  Morris  Greenfinch  be  like 
to  recover;  and  in  some  houses  hereabouts, 
where  the  plague  hath  been,  they  have 
taken  it  so  kindly  tliat  it  hath  scaaxe  been 
felt." 

-  After  bidding  of  him  keep  strict  watch, 
they  continued  their  walk ;  and  presently 
heard  a  voice  of  one  calling  across  tlie  way 
to  his  neighl)<>r  opposite. 

"  IIow  goeth  all  with  you?" 

«  We  ar(!  all  well,  thanks  be  to  God  ! 
neighbor  Mahnsey.      And  how  fareth  your 


Ixjd-fellow  ?"  replied  one  from  a  casement 
over  against  him. 

"  Bravely,  neighbor  Dowlas,  I  thank  you," 
said  his  brother  alderman ;  "  they  do  say 
tliore  is  some  show  of  the  pestilence  abating ; 
I  would  it  were  true,  else  shall  we  be  all 
ruined  for  a  surety.  1  have  not  so  much  as 
sold  a  pint  of  wine  for  the  last  week  past." 

"  Nor  I  a  yard  of  cloth,  for  a  month," 
added  the  other,  "  I  pray  God,  the  survi- 
vors may  have  the  decency  to  go  into 
mourning  for  their  lost  relations." 

"  And  so  your  good  dame  is  well,  neigh- 
bor ?"  asked  Alderman  Malmsey. 

"  As  well  as  heart  could  wish,"  replied 
Alderman  Dowlas. 

"  Commend  nie  to  her,  I  pray  you,"  said 
the  other;  and  then  with  a  "good  night," 
each  closed  his  casement.  Upon  proceed- 
ing a  little  further  on,  the  party  were  stop- 
ped by  the  melodious  sweet  sound  of  several 
voices,  intent  upon  the  singing  of  some  holy 
hynm.  Perchance  it  might  have  proceeded 
from  some  pious  family ;  for  in  tlie  quiet 
night,  the  ear  could  plainly  enough  distin- 
guish the  full  deep  bass  of  the  father,  join- 
mg  with  the  clear  sweet  trebles  of  his  wife 
and  children.  And  exceeding  touching  it 
was  at  such  a  time  to  hear  such  projx^r 
singing ;  indeed,  so  moved  were  tlie  three 
listeners,  that  they  sought  not  to  leave  tlie 
spot  till  it  was  ended. 

"That  be  David  Hurdle's  voice,  I  will 
be  bound  for  it,"  exclaimed  the  (Nonstable. 
"  Indeed,  it  be  well  known  he  hath,  during 
the  raging  of  the  pestilence,  spent  best  part 
of  the  day  in  praying  with  his  family,  and 
in  tlie  singing  of  godly  hymns.  He  is  a 
poor  man — some  call  liim  a  Puritan,  but  I 
do  believe  him  to  be  as  honest  good  Chris- 
tian man  ;u-  any  one  in  this  town,  be  they 
rich  or  poor,  gentle  or  simple.  But  what 
villainous  rude  uproar  is  this,  my  nuisters  I 
that  treadeth  so  close  on  the  lieels  of  such 
exquisite  music  ?" 

I'faith,  Oliver  Dumps  had  good  cause  to 
cry  out  as  he  did ;  tor  all  at  once  they  were 
startled  by  a  nuuibcr  of  most  unmannerly 
voices,  shouting  in  very  boisteroiis  fashion 
such  profane  words  as  these  : — 

"  If  wo  Ivoast  not  a  fire, 

Thai  is  just  our  desire — 

What  then  ?    ^Ve  uvust  needs  burn  the  bellows  ; 

And  if  here  there's  a  man 

That  luitli  nought  in  his  can — 

What  then  I     lie's  the  prince  of  good  fellows." 

"Odds,  my  Ufe  !"  exclaimed  a  voice  that 
was  heard,  amid  the  din  of  laughing  and 
shouting, and  other  lewd  iK'havior.      "Odds, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


35 


my  life,  that  is  as  exquisite  a  catch  as  ever 
I  heard.     Methinks,  'tis  the  very  movinest, 

•    .1   r    11       i    _  isru.,*   „„„„„«■  T'C^l.l,, 


What  sayest  Tickle- 


mi  rthfullcst  a 
breech  ?'" 

"  Exactly,  so,  an'  it  please  your  rever- 
ence," replied  the  voice  of  the  schoolmaster, 
in  a  tone  somewhat  husky. 

"  By'r  lady,  master  parson,"  said  another, 
"  metliinks  tis  of  that  superlative  exquisite- 
ness  'twould  tickle — (a  hiccup)  the  ribs  of 
a  tombstone." 

Master  Combe,  and  his  companions, 
peeped  through  the  crevices  of  the  shutters, 
and  beheld  Sir  Nathaniel  seated  at  the  head 
of  a  taljle  covered  with  drinking  vessels, 
with  Strijies  apposite  him,  and  nigh  upon  a 
score  of  low  idle  disorderly  vagabonds  sit- 
ting round  making  merry,  but  with  mon- 
strous little  assurance  of  sobriety  in  their 
looks. 

"  Lord !  Lord  !  an'  tliese  fellows  be  not 
heathens,  I  marvel  what  they  shall  rightly 
•be  called,"  said  the  scandalized  constable. 

"  It  grieves  me  to  see  Sir  Nathaniel  so 
readily  accommodate  himself  to  such  dis- 
■creditableness,"  observed  John  Shakspeare. 

"'Shghtl"  exclaimed  Master  Combe, 
whose  nature  was  vexed  to  behold  such  a 
scene  with  such  actors  in  it ;  "  he  is  a.  \'ery 
hog  that  will  swill  any  wash  that  is  given 
him.,  let  it  be  where  it  may." 

The  ringing  of  a  large  hand-bell  now  at- 
tracted their  attention  elsewhere  ;  and  look- 
ing along  the  street,  they  observed  a  cart 
slowly  proceeding  towards  tliem,  accompa- 
nied by  two  or  three  stout  fellows,  some 
carrying  torches,  and  others  armed  with 
bills.  It  stopped  at  a  house  where  was  a 
red  cross  on  the  door,  at  v'hich  having 
knocked,  and  the  door  opening,  two  stepped 
in,  and  presently  returned,  bearing  of  a 
heavy  burden  betwixt  them,  with  the  which 
they  ascended  a  short  ladder,  and,  without 
any  word  spoke,  cast  into  the  cart.  Then 
ringing  of  the  bell  again  they  continued 
their  way,  till  some  door  opening  noiseless- 
ly, they  stopped,  entered,  and  with  the  same 
'dreadful  silence  carried  out,  what  on  nearer 
approach,  proved  to  be  a  corpse,  which  was 
■added  to  the  rest  they  had,  in  the  manner 
that  hath  been  described. 

"Hast  taken  many  this  round?"  asked 
Master  Combe,  of  one  of  tlie  watchmen 
walking  in  front  of  the  horse. 

"  No,  your  worship,  God  be  thanked," 
replied  the  man. 

"  Hast  many  more  to  take  ?"  asked  John 
Shakspeare. 

"  I  expect  laot  master,"  said  the  other. 
Indeed,  from  all  I  have  witnessed  and  can 


get  knowledge  of,  it  scemeth  to  me  the  pes- 
tilence be  abating  wonderfully." 

"  God  send  it  may  come  to  a  speedy  end- 
ing," excaimed  Oliver  Dumps,  with  some 
earnestness :  it  maketh  me  clean  out  of 
heart  when  I  think  of  what  ravage  it  hath 
made." 

The  three  now  walked  at  the  horse's 
head,  conversing  concerning  of  who  had 
died,  and  who  were  sick,  and  the  like  mat- 
ters, stopping  when  the  cart  stopped,  and 
going  on  when  it  proceeded ;  but  always 
keeping  before  the  horse,  because  of  the 
wind  blowing  from  that  direction.  At  one 
house  the  men  remained  longer  than  was 
usual,  and  the  door  being  open,  there  was 
heard  a  great  cry  of  lamentation  as  of  a 
woman  in  terrible  affliction. 

"  Ah,  poor  dame,  she  hath  infinite  cause 
for  such  deep  grieving,"  said  the  constable. 

"  Go,  got  you  hence  !"  cried  one  very  ur- 
gently from  within  the  house.  "  As  God 
shall  judge  me,  he  shall  not  be  touched." 

"  VVhat  meaneth  this  ?"  inquired  John 
Shakspeare. 

"  I  say  it  shall  not  be,"  continued  the 
same  voice.  "  I  will  die  ere  I  will  let  him 
be  borne  away  from  me.  Hast  hearts? 
Hast  feelings  ?  Dost  know  of  what  stuff  a 
mother's  love  be  made  ?    Away  villains." 

"  'Tis  a  most  pitiful  story,"  obsei-ved  Mas- 
ter Combe.  Wondrous  pitiful !  in  sooth, 
she  hath  been  sorely  tried.  But  I  must  in, 
else  in  her  desperation  she  will  allow  of  no- 
thing ;  and  mayhap  they  may  be  violent 
with  her." 

"  What  wouldst  do  ?"  inquired  John 
Shakspeare,  catching  his  friend  by  the  arm, 
as  he  was  making  for  the  door.  "  Surely, 
if  there  is  one  dead  here,  you  will  only  be 
endangering  of  yourself  by  venturing  in, 
and  no  good  come  of  it  to  any." 

"  I  pray  you  think  not  of  it,"  cried  Oliver 
Dumps,  seeming  in  famous  consternation, 
'•  There  hath  more  died  in  that  house  than 
in  any  two  in  the  town." 

"  Fear  nothing ;  I  will  be  back  anon," 
said  Master  Combe,  as  he  broke  away  and 
entered  at  the  open  door. 

"  Alack,  think  not  of  following  him,  I 
pray  you,  John  Shakspeare  !"  called  out  the 
constable,  in  increased  alarm,  as  he  beheld 
the  one  quickly  treading  upon  the  heels  of 
the  other,  "  Well,  never  saw  I  such  wan- 
ton seeking  of  death.  They  be  lost  men. 
'Twill  be  dangerous  to  be  in  their  company 
after  this;  so  I'll  e'en  have  none  on't." 
And  away  started  he  in  the  direction  of  his 
home.  In  the  mean  while  the  other  two 
reached  an  inner  chamber,  where  was  a 
sight  to  see  that  would  have  melted  any 


36 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


stone.  On  a  low  bed  there  sat  a  matronly 
woman,  of  decent  appearance,  with  an  as- 
pect pale  and  exceeding  careworn,  and  her 
eyes  full  of  such  thorough  anguish  as  is 
utterly  impossible  to  be  described  ;  and  she 
held,  folded  in  her  arms,  the  body  of  a  youth 
seeming  to  be  dead  of  the  pestilence. 

"  The  last !"  exclaimed  she,  in  most  mov- 
ing tones,  as  she  fixed  her  tearful  gaze  on 
the  discolored  object  in  her  lap.  "  Hu.sband 
— children — all  gone,  despite  my  tender 
nursing,  and  constant  hope  this  one  might 
be  spared,  and  now  that — each  followed  the 
other,  and  liore  am  I — woe  is  me  ! — widow- 
ed, childless,  and  heart-broken.  Alack,  'tis 
a  cruel  world  !"  And  tliereupon  she  sobbed 
in  such  a  sort  as  could  not  be  seen  of  any 
with  dry  eyes. 

"  But  tliey  shall  never  take  thee  from  me, 
my  dear  boy,"  continued  she  in  a  like  piti- 
ful manner.  "  Heretofore  I  have  borne  all 
and  flinched  none  ;  but  thou  hast  been  my 
last  stay,  whereon  all  the  love  1  bore  thy 
good  father  and  thy  brave  brothers,  was 
heaped  together ;  and  losing  tliee,  I  lose  my 
very  heart  and  soul ;  so,  quick  or  dead,  1 
will  cling  to  thee  whilst  I  have  life.  Away  ! 
insatiate  wretches  !"  ehe  cried,  turning  her 
mournful  aspect  upon  the  two  men;  '•  Hast 
not  had  enough  of  me  ?  Dost  not  see  how 
poor  a  case  1  am  in  for  the  lack  of  what  I 
have  been  used  to  ?  Begone  !"  And  then 
she  hugged  the  lifeless  youth  in  her  arms  as 
if  she  would  part  with  him  on  no  account. 
Neither  Master  Combe  or  Jolm  Shakspeare 
felt  as  tiiey  were  complete  masters  of  them- 
selves; but  they  knew  it  could  not  be  proper 
tliat  tiie  dead  should  stay  with  the  living. 

"  Believe  uie,  we  sympathize  in  your  great 
afflictions  with  all  our  hearts,  good  dame," 
at  last  observed  the  former  to  her,  with  that 
sweet  courtcousness  which  was  so  natural 
to  him.  "  But  I  pray  you,  have  some  pity 
on  yourself,  and  be  resigned  to  that  which 
cannot  be  helped." 

"Ah,  M:ister  Combe!"  cried  she,  now 
first  observing  him,  "  I  would  I  could  say 
I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  for,  in  trutli  you 
have  been  an  excellent  good  friend  to  me 
and  mine  in  our  greatest  need  ;  but  as  it 
seemcth  to  me  my  heart's  strings  be  so  upon 
the  stretch,  'twould  be  but  a  mockery  to  say 
80.  Oil,  the  misery  !"  and  tlien  she  bowed  her 
head  and  wept  exceedingly.  At  this  Master 
Combe  endeavored  all  he  could  to  give  her 
comfort ;  and  as  his  speech  was  wonderfully 
to  the  purpose,  though  at  first  she  was  deaf 
to  all  argument  of  the  sort,  by  degrees  he 
won  her  to  some  show  of  reason. 

"  But  he  shall  not  be  touched  !"  she  ex- 
claimed,    niournfidly,     yet     determinedly. 


"  Wlio  so  proper  to  cany  him  out  of  the 
world  as  she  who  brought  him  in  it  ?  I  will 
have  no  rude  hand  laid  on  his  delicate 
limbs.  I  will  to  the  grave  with  him  myself. 
Alack  !  poor  boy,  how  my  heart  aches  to 
look  at  thee  !"  Then  carefully  wiping  off 
the  tears  she  had  let  fall  upon  his  face,  she 
proceeded  to  wrap  him  in  a  sheet,  ever  and 
anon  giving  of  such  deep  sobs  as  showed  in 
what  extremity  she  was  in.  This  Master 
Combe  sought  not  to  interrupt ;  and  John 
Shakspeare's  honest  nature  was  so  moved 
at  the  scene,  he  had  no  mind  to  utter  a 
word.  Even  the  men,  used  as  they  must 
have  been  to  sights  of  wretchedness,  re- 
garded not  what  was  going  on  in  total  in- 
differency,  as  was  manifest  in  their  aspects. 
But  the  movingest  sight  of  all  was  to  see 
that  hapless  mother,  when  she  had  disposed 
of  her  dead  son  as  decently  as  she  could, 
bearing  the  heavy  burthen  in  her  arms  with 
a  slow  step,  looking  pale  as  any  ghost,  and 
in  such  terrible  despair  as  can  never  be  con- 
ceived. The  men,  as  they  led  the  way  with 
a  lantern,  were  forced  more  than  once,  to 
draw  the  cuffs  of  their  jerkins  over  their 
eyelids  ;  and  Master  Combe  and  John  Shak- 
speare  followed  her,  full  of  pity  for  her  sor- 
rowful condition.  She  bore  up  bravely  till 
slie  came  to  the  door,  when  the  sight  of  the 
dead-cart,  made  visible  by  the  red  glare  of 
the  torches,  came  upon  her  with  such  a  sud- 
denness, that  she  swooned  away,  and  would 
have  fallen  on  the  ground,  had  not  Master 
Combe  ran  quickly  and  caught  her  in  his 
arms.  Then,  by  his  direction,  her  dead  son 
was  placed  with  the  other  corpses,  and  she 
carried  back  to  the  room  she  had  left ;  and 
after  seeing  she  had  proper  attendance,  he 
and  John  Shakspeare  proceeded  witli  the 
watchman  and  others  tliat  had  the  care  of 
the  cart,  calling  nowhere  else  as  they  went 
in  so  doleful  a  humor  that  they  spoke  never 
a  word  all  the  way.  They  came  to  a  field 
outside  of  the  town,  where  was  a  great  hole 
dug,  and  a  large  mound  of  fresh  earth  at  tlie 
side  of  it.  At  Uiis  time,  some  of  tlie  men 
took  in  their  hands  mattocks  which  were 
stuck  in  tlie  soil,  others  backed  the  cart  so 
that  tlie  end  of  it  .-hould  come  as  nigh  as 
possible  to  tlie  pit,  and  Uio  rest  held  torches 
that  the  others  migiit  seethe  better.  Scarce 
any  spoke  save  Master  Combe,  who,  in  a 
low  tone,  gave  such  orders  as  were  needed. 
Presently  the  cart  was  tilted,  and  in  the 
next  moment  the  bodies  of  those  dead  of  tiie 
pestilence  swept  into  the  rude  grave  pre- 
pared for  them. 

"  By  (lod's  body,  I  heard  a  grcxm !"  cried 
John  Sliaks|)eare,  with  a  famous  vehemence. 
In  an  instant  there  was  so  dead  a  mlcuce 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


37 


you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop.  What  had 
been  said  was  true  enough,  for  ere  another 
minute  had  elapsed,  all  there  distinctly 
heard  a  sound  of  groaning  come  from  the 
pit.  Each  of  the  men  looked  at  liis  neigh- 
bor in  silent  terroi-,  and  speedily  as  they 
might  brought  their  torches  to  throw  as 
much  light  as  they  could  into  the  pit's 
mouth. 

"  Alack  !  I  fear  we  have  buried  the  living 
with  the  dead  !''  exclaimed  Master  Combe, 
evidently  in  a  monstrous  perplexity.  Every 
eye  was  strained  to  note  if  any  sign  of  life 
was  visible  amongst  the  mass  below.  What 
a  sight  was  there  presented  to  the  horror- 
struck  gazers  !  Arms  and  legs  and  upturned 
faces  that  had  burst  from  their  frail  cover- 
ings, all  discolored  and  ghastly,  looking  more 
hideous  than  can  be  conceived. 

"  As  I  live,  something  moveth  in  this  cor- 
ner !"  cried  John  Shakspeare. 

"  A  light  here,  ho !"  shouted  Master  Combe 
in  a  voice  that  brought  every  torch  to  the  spot 
ere  the  words  had  scarce  been  uttered  ;  and 
all  were  breathless  with  expectation.  To  the 
extreme  consternation  of  every  one  there, 
Master  Combe  suddenly  seized  a  torch  out  of 
the  hands  of  one  of  the  watch  who  was  nigh- 
est  to  him,  and  leaped  in  amongst  those  foul 
bodies,  close  upon  the  spot  pointed  out  by 
John  Shakspeare. 

"  Help  all,  if  ye  be  Christian  men  ! "  cried 
Master  Combe,  as  if  he  was  exceeding  mov- 
ed, whilst  those  above  were  gazing  down  up- 
on him,  bewildered  with  very  fear.  "  Help, 
I  pray  you  I  for  here  is  the  widow's  son  alive 
yet ;  and  if  care  bo  used  without  loss  of  time, 
perchance  we  shall  have  such  good  fortune 
as  to  restore  him  to  her  to  be  her  comfort  all 
her  days." 

Methinks  there  needs  no  telling  of  what 
alacrity  was  used  to  get  the  youth  out  of  the 
pit  with  all  speed,  every  one  forgetting  of  his 
danger  in  the  excitement  of  the  case.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say,  he  was  rescued  from  his  ex- 
pected grave  before  he  liad  any  conscious- 
ness of  being  there,  and  that  such  treatment 
was  used  as  soon  turned  to  his  profit ;  for  he 
recovered,  and  grew  to  be  hale  soon.  Of  the 
infinite  joy  of  the  late  bereaved  mother,  when 
that  her  dead  son  was  restored  alive  to  her 
loving  arms,  shall  I  not  attempt  to  describe, 
for  to  my  thinking,  it  is  beyond  the  extremest 
cunning  of  the  pen. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  ; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Greene. 
O  flatterer  false, thou  traitor  born, 
What  mischief  more  might  thou  devise 
Than  thy  dear  friend  to  have  in  scorn. 
And  him  to  wound  in  sundry  wise  ] 
Which  still  a  friend  pretends  to  be. 
And  art  not  so  by  proof  1  see. 
Fie,  fie  upon  such  treachery  ! 
Wm.  Hu.vnis.   {Paradise  of  DaiiUie  Devices.) 
Who  will  not  judge  him  worthy  to  be  robbed. 
That  sets  his  doors  wide  open  to  a  thief, 
And  shows  the  felon  where  his  treasure  lies  1" 
Ben  JoNSON.     {^Evcnj  Man  ia  his  Humor.) 

Time  passed,  and  with  it  passed  away  all 
sign  of  the  dreadf id  scourge  that  had  fallen 
so  heavily  on  the  good  town  of  Stratford.  So 
out  of  mind  was  it,  that  the  honest  burgesses 
scarce  ever  talked  of  the  subject,  save  per- 
adventure  some  long  winter's  eve,  when  tales 
were  going  round  the  chimney  corner,  some 
one  or  another  would  vary  the  common  gos- 
siping of  ghosts  and  v.'itches,  fairies  and  such 
like,  with  a  story  of  the  fearful  plague,  the 
which  never  failed  to  make  the  hearers,  ere 
they  entered  their  beds,  down  on  their  mar- 
row-bones, and  very  heartily  thank  God  they 
had  escaped  such  imnnnent,  terrible  danger 
Everjthing  was  going  on  just  in  the  old  plea- 
sant way. 

John  Shakspeare  had  been  made  an  alder- 
man of,  and  was  now  advanced  to  the  dignity 
of  high  bailift',  being  also  in  a  fair  way  of  bu- 
siness, and  in  excellent  repute,  for  his  tho- 
rough honesty,  among  his  fellow-burgesses  ; 
nor  was  it  forgotten  of  them  the  good  part 
he  played  with  Master  Combe  in  the  time 
of  the  iiestilence.  Of  these,  neither  had  suf- 
fered by  the  manifold  dangers  in  which  they 
had  oft  ventured  ;  nor  had  Dame  Shakspeare, 
or  her  family  either,  notwithstanding  of  the 
iVights  he  had  been  put  to.  As  for  her  sweet 
son  William,  he  grew  to  be  as  handsome  and 
well  behaved  a  child  as  ever  lived  in  the 
world,  and  the  adiuiration  of  all  who  could 
get  sight  of  him.  Concerning  of  his  intelli- 
gence above  all  other  children  that  ever  liv- 
ed, nurse  Cicely  gave  such  marvelous  ac- 
counts, that  he  must  needs  have  been  a  pro- 
digy ere  he  vvas  in  short  coats.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt  he 
gave,  at  an  exceeding  early  age,  many  signs 
of  excellence,  and  of  aptitude  for  such  learn- 
ing as  the  inquisitive  young  mind  is  ever 
most  intent  upon. 

Once  when  John  Shakspeare,  with  Hum- 


38 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


phrey  and  others  who  assisted  him  in  his  bu- 
siness, were  lalwriiig  liard  in  wcig^hing  and 
sorting  and  packing  ccrt;ain  tods  of  wool,  the 
good  dame  was  in  her  chamber  seated,  ply- 
ing of  her  needle  famously,  and  on  the  floor, 
just  at  her  feet,  was  her  young  son,  having 
by  him  certain  toys  such  as  children  com- 
monly find  some  pretty  pastime  in.  Some- 
times he  would  seem  monstrous  busy  divert-  | 
ing  of  liiniself  with  these  trifles,  prattling  to 
himself  all  tlie  whilst ;  anon  he  would  leave 
off,  and  lifting  up  his  face,  would  ask  some 
question  of  his  mother,  tiie  which  if  she  an- 
swered not,  be  sure  he  would  importune  her 
with  inflnite  earnestness  till  she  did.  Close  at 
hand  tliere  was  a  s])inning-wheel ;  on  the 
wainscot  were  two  or  three  samplers,  con- 
taining divers  fine  texts  of  Scripture,  with 
flowers  worked  round  the  border,  doubtless 
of  the  good  dame's  own  working.  On  a 
square  table  of  oak  was  a  basket  with  threads 
and  tapes  and  the  like  in  it ;  beside  it  was 
some  cloth  of  a  frolic  green,  of  which  she  ap- 
peared to  be  making  a  new  frock  for  the  boy, 
with  such  pretty  fantasy  of  her's  in  the  faslii- 
oning  of  it,  as  she  thought  would  become  him 
most.  The  casement,  which  looked  out  into 
the  garden,  being  unclosed,  there  was  upon 
the  ledge  a  large  ewer  fllled  with  sprigs  of 
lavender,  that  made  the  chamber  smell  very 
daintily.  Nurse  Cicely  was  assisting  of 
Maud  in  a  further  room,  the  door  of  which 
being  open,  the  two  could  be  seen  at  their 
employment,  getting  up  the  linen  of  the  fa- 
mily— for  nurse  had  grown  greatly  in  her 
mistress'  confldence,  because  of  her  constant 
afiectionatencss  and  care  of  the  child,  and  of 
her  trustworthiness  and  wonderful  skill  in  all 
household  matters. 

"  Alother,  I  pray  you  tell  me  something 
concerning  of  the  fairies  of  whom  Nurse 
Cicely  discourseth  to  me  so  oft  1"  exclaimed 
the  boy. 

"  Prithee,  wait  till  nurse  hath  leisure,"  re- 
plied his  mother.  "  She  knoweth  more  of 
them  than  do  I." 

"  An'  you  love  me,  tell  me  are  they  so 
mindful  of  good  little  children  as  she  hath 
said  ?"  added  he  more  ungently. 

'•  In  deed,  I  have  heard  so,"  answered  the 
dame. 

"  I  marvel  where  they  shall  find  lodging, 
be  they  of  such  small  stature  ?"  observed 
the  child. 

"It  is  said  they  do  commonly  sojourn  in 
the  cups  of  the  sweetest  flowers,"  said  she  ; 
"  hiding  tlieiusdves  all  the  day  ti)erein,in  the 
deepest  retreats  of  w(K)ds  and  lonely  places  : 
and  in  the;  night  time  come  they  out  in  some 
green  field,  or  other  verdant  space,  and  dance 
merrily  of  a  summer's  eve,  with  such  deli- 


cate, F^veet  enjoyment  as  is  unknown  to  mor- 
tals, till  the  morning  star  appeareth  in  the 
skies,  wlien  away  hie  they  to  their  hiding- 
places,  every  one  as  swiftly  as  if  he  had  wings 
to  carry  him."  The  boy  listened  with  his 
fair  eyes  upturned,  gazing  in  his  mother's 
face  in  a  famous  seriousness  and  wonder, 
then  seemed  he  to  ponder  awhile  on  what 
had  been  told  him. 

"  And  how  many  little  children  be  possess- 
ed of  such  goodness  as  may  make  them  be 
well  regarded  of  these  same  fairies  ?"  asked 
he  at  last. 

"  They  must  give  way  to  no  naughty  be- 
havior," answered  his  mother.  "  They  must 
not  be  uncivil,  nor  froward,  nor  capable  of 
any  kind  of  disobedience  or  obstinacy,  nor  say 
any  thing  that  is  not  true,  nor  be  impatient, 
or  greedy,  or  quarrelsome,  nor  have  any  un- 
cleanly or  untidy  ways,  nor  do  any  one  tiling 
they  are  told  not." 

"  I  warrant  you  I  will  do  none  of  these," 
exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  But  above  all  they  must  be  sure  learn 
their  letters  betimes,"  continued  the  other ; 
"  that  they  may  be  able  to  know  the  proper 
knowledge  writ  in  books,  which  if  they  know 
not  when  they  grow  up,  neither  fair\'  nor  any 
other  shall  esteem  them  to  be  of  any  good- 
ness whatsoever." 

"  I  warrant  you  I  will  leani  my  letters  as 
speedily  as  I  can,"  replied  the  child  eagerly. 
"  Nay,  I  beseech  you  mother,  teach  them  to 
me  now,  for  I  am  exceeding  desirous  to  be 
thought  of  some  goodness."  The  mother 
smiled,  well  pleased  to  notice  such  impati- 
ence in  him,  and  bade  him  leave  his  toys  and 
fetch  her  a  horn-book  that  was  on  a  shelf  witli 
a  few  books  of  anotlier  kind,  the  which  he 
did  very  readily  ;  and  then  as  he  stood  lean- 
ing on  her  lap,  seriously  intent  upon  obser\'- 
ing  of  the  characters  there  put  down,  she  told 
him  of  what  names  they  were  called,  and 
bade  him  mark  them  well,  that  he  might  be 
sure  not  to  mistake  one  for  anotlier.  This 
very  willingly  he  promised  to  do,  and  for 
sometime,  the  whilst  she  continued  her  work, 
yet  with  a  frequent  and  loving  eye  on  his 
proceedings  he  would  pore  over  those  letters, 
saying  to  himself  what  their  names  were,  or 
if  he  stood  in  any  doubt,  straightway  questi- 
oning of  his  mother  upon  the  matter. 

"  But  what  good  are  these  same  letters  of, 
mother  ?"  inquired  he  all  at  once. 

"  This  mucii,  rejilied  Dame  Shakspeare — 
"  knowing  of  tliem  thoroughly  one  by  one, 
you  shall  soon  come  to  be  able  to  put  them 
together  for  the  forming  of  words  ;  and  when 
you  are  sutlicieiitly  apt  at  that,  you  shall 
thereby  come  to  be  learned  enough  to  read 
all   such  words  as  are  in  any  -sentence — 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


39 


which  you  shall  find  to  be  made  up  of  such  ; 
and  when  the  reading  of  these  sentences  be 
familiar  to  you,  doubt  not  your  ability  to  mas- 
ter whatsoever  proper  book  falleth  into  your 
hand — for  all  books  are  composed  of  such 
sentences." 

"  Is  it  so,  indeed  !"  observed  the  boy  in  a 
pretty  sort  of  innocent  surprise.  "  And  do 
any  of  these  goodly  books  discourse  of  the 
fairies  you  spoke  of  awhile  since  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  do  they,  and  famously  I  warrant 
you,"  answered  his  mother. 

"  Oh  !  how  glad  of  heart  shall  I  be  when 
I  can  master  such  books  !"  exclaimed  the 
child  very  earnestly  ;  "  for  I  do  long  to  learn 
more  of  these  fairies.  Dost  know,  mother, 
that  after  nurse  hath  sung  me  songs  of  them, 
or  told  me  marvelous  pretty  tales  of  them,  as 
is  her  wont  till  I  have  fallen  asleep,  it  hath 
seemed  to  me  as  if  crowds  of  such  tiny  folk 
out  of  all  number,  shining  so  brightly  in  their 
gay  apparel  of  the  finest  colors,  as  though  I 
was  with  them  in  the  fair  sunshine,  have 
come  thronging  to  me,  offering  me  this  dain- 
ty nice  thing  and  the  other  dainty  nice  thing, 
and  singing  to  me  sweeter  songs  than  nurse 
Cicely  sings,  and  dancing  and  making  sport 
with  such  infinite  joy  as  would  make  any 
glad  to  be  of  their  company  ;  and  whilst  they 
continue,  they  show  me  sucli  wonderful  great 
kindness,  and  aObrd  me  such  extreme  plea- 
sure, it  gricveth  me  when  I  wake  to  find  they 
are  all  gone.  So  that  I  am  exceeding  de- 
sirous, as  I  have  said,  to  make  myself  as 
good  as  I  can,  and  to  learn  my  letters  as 
speedily  as  I  may,  that  I  may  be  admitted  to 
play  with  them,  and  be  loved  of  them  as  much 
as  they  will  let  me." 

The  good  dame  marvelled  somewhat  to 
liear  this,  and  to  note  with  what  pleased  ex- 
citement it  was  said,  for  sooth  to  say,  it  was 
a  right  pleasant  picture,  as  ever  limner  drew, 
to  see  those  intelligent  eyes  so  full  of  deep 
expressiveness,  and  the  tair  forehead  sur- 
rounded with  its  clustering,  shining  curls, 
and  the  delicate,  rosy  cheek  and  smiling 
mouth,  that  could  of  themselves  have  dis- 
coursed most  exquisite  meaning,  even  though 
that  most  melodious  voice  had  failed  in  its 
proper  office. 

"Marry,  but  you  have  pleasant  dreams, 
methinks  !"  exclaimed  she  at  last. 

"  Ay,  that  have  I,"  replied  the  boy  :  "  yet 
I  like  not  waking,  and  all  this  sweet  pleasant- 
ness go  away,  I  know  not  where.  But  I  must 
to  my  lesson  of  the  letters,"  added  he,  as  he 
took  to  his  horn-book  again  ;  "  else  shall  the 
fairies  take  me  to  be  of  no  manner  of  good- 
ness, and  straightway  have  none  of  me." 

"  Yes,  an'  it  please  you,  mistress  is  within. 
1  pray  you  enter,"  nurse  Cicely  was  here 


heard  to  say  in  the  next  chamber — "  I  doubt 
not  she  will  be  exceedingly  glad  of  your 
company  ;  so  walk  in,  I  beseech  you.  Here 
is  Mistress  Alderman  Dowlas,  an'  it  please 
you,  mistress  !"  exclaimed  she,  entering  the 
chamber,  closely  followed  by  the  draper's 
wife,  looking  very  cheerful,  and  dressed  in 
a  scarlet  cloak  and  a  hat,  with  a  basket  in 
her  hand  and  her  purse  at  her  girdle,  as 
though  she  were  going  to  marketing. 

"  Ha,  gossip,  how  farest  ?"  inquired  the 
visitor,  making  up  to  her  host,  with  a  merrj' 
tripping  pace. 

"  Bravely,  neighbor,  I  thank  you  heartily," 
replied  she,  and  then  they  two  kissed  each 
other  aflfectionately,  and  nurse  Cicely  got  a 
chair,  and  having  wiped  tlie  seat  with  her 
apron,  sat  it  down  close  to  her  mistress. 

"  And  how's  the  dear  boy  ?  Come  hither, 
you  pretty  rogue,  I  would  have  a  kiss  of 
you  !"  exclaimed  the  alderman's  wife,  as 
she  sat  herself  at  her  ease,  and  gave  the  bas- 
ket for  nurse  to  place  on  the  table. 

"  An'  it  please  you,  I  am  learning  of  my 
letters,"  said  the  child,  shrinking  closer  to 
liis  mother's  side. 

"  Nay,  by  my  troth,  this  is  somewhat  un- 
civil of  you,"  cried  the  dame,  though  she 
laughed  merrily  all  the  time.  "  But  I  doubt 
you  will  use  a  woman  so  when  you  get  to  be 
a  man." 

"  He  will  have  none  of  his  father  in  him 
an'  he  do,"  observed  nurse,  "  for  he  had  the 
wit  to  win  one  of  the  very  comeliest  women 
all  the  country  round." 

"  La,  nurse,  how  idly  you  talk !"  exclaim- 
ed Dame  Shakspeare,  then  bending  her  head 
to  her  young  son  to  hide  a  slight  blush  that 
appeared  on  her  fair  cheeks,  she  said  to  him 
— "  Go  you  to  neighbor  Dowlas  like  a  good 
boy  I  pray  you." 

"  Ha,  come  hither  straight,  and  mayhap  I 
shall  find  you  some  keepsake  ere  we  part," 
added  her  neighbor.  The  child  moved 
slowly  towards  her,  with  his  eyes  steadfastly 
regarding  of  his  horn-book,  till  she  raised 
him  on  her  knee  and  caressed  him ;  and  yet 
he  was  as  intent  on  the  letters  as  ever. 

"  And  what  has  got  here,  I  prithee,  that 
thou  art  so  earnest  about  ?"  asked  Mistress 
Dowlas,  as  she  examined  what  he  had  in  his 
hand.  "  A  horn-book,  as  I  live !  and  dost 
really  know  thy  letters  at  so  early  an  age  ?" 

"  By'r  lady,  of  all  children  ever  I  met,  he 
exceedeth  them  in  aptness  at  any  sort  of 
learning,"  cried  nurse  Cicely,  putting  of  his 
frock  straight  because  of  its  appearing  some- 
what rumpled  ;  "  as  I  live,  I  never  heard  of 
his  fellow  :  wilt  believe  it,  mistress  ? — if  by 
chance  I  sing  him  a  ballad — the  which  he  is 
ever  a  calling  of  me  to  do,  he  will  have  it 


40 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


again  and  again ;  and,  perchance,  ere  tlie 
day  is  over,  he  will  be  playing  with  his  toys 
and  singing  ofthat  very  ballad  all  the  whilst !" 

"  Oh,  the  dear  boy  T'  exclaimed  tiie  dra- 
jKjr's  pretty  wife,  as  she  cuddled  him  closer 
in  her  arms,  the  mother  looking  on  with  a 
fcimoiis  satisfaction  in  her  features  ;  "  and 
canst  tell  me  tliose  pretty  letters  ?"  inquired 
she  of  him. 

"  Nay,  I  doubt  I  can  tell  you  them  all," 
replied  the  child  ingeniously ;  '•  but  methinks 
1  knov/  a  good  many  of  them."  Then  point- 
ing with  his  linger  on  the  several  ciiaracters 
as  he  named  them,  he  continued — "  first  here 
is  A,  that  ever  standeth  astraddle ; — next  him 
is  B,  who  is  all  head  and  body  and  no  legs  ; 
— then  cometh  C,  bulged  out  beiiind  like  a 
very  hunchback  ; — after  him  D,  who  doctli 
the  clean  contrary,  for  his  bigness  is  all  be- 
fore ; — next,"  here  he  hesitated  for  some  few 
seconds,  the  others  present  regarding  him 
with  exceeding  attcntiveness  and  pleasure 
— "  next  here  is — alack,  I  have  forgotten  of 
what  name  this  one  is  called  :  mother,  I  pray 
you  tell  me  again  !"  It  was  told  him  pre- 
sently. Then  went  he  on  as  before,  with 
great  seriousness  naming  of  the  letters  with 
some  few  mistakes,  in  most  of  which  he 
quickly  corrected  himself,  and  coming  to  a 
halt  when  he  was  in  any  doubt  of  the  matter 
— whicii  ended  in  his  asking  help  of  his  mo- 
ther— none  interrupting  him  till  he  came  to 
the  last  of  them. 

"  There  is  a  scholar  for  yon  !"  cried  nurse 
Cicely  in  an  ecstacy  of  admiration ;  "  saw 
any  such  wonderful  cleverness  ?  O,  my 
Christian  conscience,  I  am  amazed  at  be- 
holding of  such  a  marvel  !  Well,  an'  he 
come  not  to  be  some  famous  learned  clerk  I 
shall  be  hugely  disappointed." 

"  Dear  lieart,  how  I  love  thee  !"  exclaimed 
Mistress  Dowlas,  kissing  him  witli  an  earn- 
est show  of  affection  ;  '-  nurse,  prithee  give 
me  the  basket ;  1  have  got  him  tliere  a  deli- 
cate jiiece  of  iiiarch-i)ane,  winch  I  doubt  not 
will  give  him  inlinite  content ;  and  here  in 
my  purse  I  have  got  a  bran  new  silver  groat 
fresh  from  the  mint,  which  he  shall  have  of 
me  as  a  keepsake." 

"  Marry,  what  a  prodigal  goodness  !" 
cried  nurse,  as  she  did  wiiat  was  required  of 
her  without  loss  of  time  ;  but  he  meriteth  it 
well,  h(!  doth,  I  \\'ill  ]y.i  bound  for  him,  and 
every  good  thing  in  this  world  that  might 
grace  his  having." 

"  What  say  you  to  neighbor  Dowlas  for 
her  great  kindness  ?"  inquired  tl:e  niuch  de- 
lighted mother,  as  iier  young  son  took  in  his 
hands  iier  visitor's  gifts. 

"  I  thank  you  riglit  heartily,  neighbor 
Dowlas,"  rej)lied  he,  lilting  up  his  fair  eyes 


witli  such  modesty  and  gratefulriBss  express- 
ed in  them,  as  cb.armed  her  heart  to  see. 

"  ri'aith,  should  I  be  inclined  to  become 
covetous,  methinks  here  I  should  tlnd  ample 
excuse  for  it,"  observed  the  draper's  wife, 
patting  of  the  child's  rosy  cheeks  as  she  put 
him  down  from  her  lap  ;  then  rising,  added, 
'•  But  now  I  must  hie  me  home  as  speedily 
as  I  may  for  the  getting  of  dinner  ready,  for 
I  have  tarried  so  long  a  space  since  my  com- 
ing out,  that  perchance  my  good  master  shall 
give  me  up  altogether." 

The  draper's  wife  having  gossiped  all 
she  had  to  say  concerning  of  her  neighbors 
and  their  doings,  kissed  the  boy  and  his 
mother  very  lovingly,  and  took  her  leave. 

Now  the  reader  hath  already  had  some 
acquaintance  with  those  worthies.  Master 
Alderman  Dowlas  and  Master  Alderman 
Malmsey,  but  methinks  'tis  high  time  he 
should  know  more  of  them  for  the  better 
understanding  of  this  story.  Both  had  been 
married  some  time  to  two  as  proper  women 
as  ever  were  seen.  The  former  of  tlie  two 
was  a  rigid,  serious,  methodical  fellow  to  aD 
outward  appearance ;  somewhat  tall  and 
slender,  with  hard  solemn  features,  as  hatli 
been  described  ;  and  the  other  was  one  of  a 
right  jolly  face  and  portly  ])erson,  with  a. 
merry  dark  eye,  ever  a  winking  at  some 
pretty  woman  or  another,  and  a  short  black 
beard,  with  hair  of  a  like  color.  Each  was 
turned  of  forty,  and  therefore  ought  to  have 
been  of  discreet  behavior ;  and  as  for  tiieir 
wives,  if  ever  men  had  inducement  to  honest 
conduct,  they  had  in  possessing  of  such 
women  ;  for  they  were  ever  of  an  admirable 
pleasant  humor,  of  not^ible  excellence  hi 
what  women  ought  to  be,  and  in  all  res- 
pects such  good  wives,  tliat  it  was  not  pos- 
sible to  say  ought  to  tlieir  discredit.  Each 
was  a  little  short  of  tiiirty,  and  having  hud 
no  children,  had  not  yet  parted  with  their 
youthfulness,  and  the  iimocent  happy  care- 
lessness which  is  so  oft  its  companion.  They 
were  friends  from  girls,  and  loved  each  other 
as  tiiougli  they  were  sisters. 

"  Neighbor  Dowhus  !"  cried  a  well-known 
voice,  as  the  draper's  wife  was  crossing  to 
her  house ;  and  looking  up,  she  saw  her 
gossip  oMistress  Aldennan  Mandsey  leaning 
out  of  her  ca.semcnt.  "  I  pray  you  come  in  a 
while,  I  have  a  matter  of  some  mouient  for 
your  private  ear." 

"  I'll  come  to  you  this  verj'  instant,"  an- 
swered the  other,  and  straightway  passed 
into  the  vintner's  dwelling.  Scarce  had  she 
got  within  the  threshhold,  when  the  jolly 
vintner  bustled  up  to  her  with  a  marvelous 
obsequious  courtc^sy  welcoming  lier  to  the 
house,  pressing  her  to  tatte  of  liis  best  wine, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


41 


and  leering  in  her  face  the  whilst,  whisper- 
ing all  sorts  of  sugared  compliments  in  her 
ear. 

"Nay,  prithee  let  me  go  !"  exclaimed  she, 
striving  to  free  her  hand,  which  he  held  in 
his  as  they  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair. 
"  You  hurt  my  fingers,  you  vile  wretch,  with 
your  intolerable  squeezing." 

"  Oh,  delectable  Mistress  Dowlas  !"  cried 
he,  kissing  of  her  hand  in  seeming  rapture ; 
"  tlie  stars  are  but  i)itiful  rushlights  to  those 
exquisite  bright  eyes,  and  that  delicate  fair 
cheek  out-rivaleth  the  peach's  richest 
bloom." 

''  Away  with  you,  and  your  poor  flatter- 
ing stuff !"  said  the  draper's  pretty  wife,  still 
striving  to  break  away  from  him ;  "  I'm 
not  to  be  cozened  so  easily,  I  promise  you." 

"  I  beseech  you,  dearest  life,  allow  me  one 
sweet  salute  !"  whispered  he,  in  most  en- 
treating tones,  as  he  brought  his  face  as 
close  as  he  could  to  her's." 

"  There's  one  prithee,  make  the  most 
on't !"  exclaimed  she,  as  'die  took  him  a  box 
on  the  ear  that  made  the  place  ring  ;  and 
then  ran  laughing  up  stairs. 

Neighbor  Malmsey  wore  a  more  serious 
face  than  was  her  wont.  At  least  so  thought 
neighbor  Dowlas,  as  she  entered  her  cham- 
ber ;  and  after  the  customary  courtesies 
were  over,  and  the  two  were  seated  close 
together,  neighbor  Malmsey  looked  more 
serious  still. 

"  I  have  a  matter  to  speak  of,  that  mak- 
eth  me  exceedingly  dull  at  heart,"  com- 
menced Mistress  Malmsey. 

"  Doubtless,  'tis  concerning  the  improper 
behavior  of  her  wretch  of  a  husband," 
thought  Mistress  Dowlas  ;  then  added  aloud. 
"Believe  mo,  I  am  infinitely  concerned  also." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  think  the  worse  of 
me  for  telHiig  you,"  continued  the  vintner's 
wife ;  "  but  1  assure  you,  rather  than  allow 
of  your  being  uniiappy  by  knowing  it,  I  have 
for  many  years  past  endured  much  of  un- 
pleasantness at  Ills  hands,  and  said  nought 
but  rebuke  hiin  for  his  wantoness. 

"  Alack,  we  cannot  all  have  good  hus- 
bands !"  exclaimed  her  gossip,  in  a  conso- 
lotary  sort  of  manner. 

"  Now,  my  Jonathan " 

"  But  he  only  groweth  the  bolder  for  my 
forbearance,"  continued  neighbor  Malmsey, 
interrupting  the  otlier.  Indeed,  he  getteth 
to  be  quite  abominal,  and  must  have  a 
speedy  check  put  to  his  misdeeds,  or  his 
wickedness  will  soon  make  such  a  head, 
there  will  no  putting  of  him  down." 

"  O'  my  life,  I  cannot  count  him  so  bad 
as  that,"  observed  neighbor  Dowlas,  as  if, 
with  a  view  of  afibrding  the  ill-used  wife 


some  comfort.  "  Perchance,  it  is  only  a 
little  wildness  that  good  counsel  will  make 
him  ashamed  of  speedily.  Now,  my  Jona- 
than   " 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  no  worse  of  him," 
quickly  answered  the  vintner's  wife  ;  "  but 
methinks,  it  looketh  to  be  a  very  shameful 
impudency  in  him  to  go  on  so,  and  have  so 
good  a  wife." 

"  Ay,  'tis  monstrous  that,  of  a  surety !" 
cried  her  gossip. 

"  But  I  have  done  with  him,"  added 
neigbor  Malmsey,  with  some  earnestness  ; 
"  he  hath  lost  my  good  opinion  long  since. 
I  will  foreswear  his  company,  an'  he  mend 
not  soon." 

"  Prithee,  take  not  to  such  extreme  mea- 
sures !"  said  the  other,  concernedly.  "  Find- 
ing no  profit  in  it,  I  doubt  not  he  will  alter 
his  way,  and  I  will  take  good  heed  he  shall 
do  you  no  matter  of  dishonesty." 

"  Marry,  I  can  answer  for  that,"  observ- 
ed her  companion  ;  "  but  I  do  assure  you  I 
have  talked  to  him  many  times  of  the 
heinousness  of  the  offence,  and  never  at 
any  time  have  given  him  the  slightest  pro- 
vocation for  such  notorious  misbehaving  to 
you." 

"  Of  that  I  feel  well  assured,"  answered 
neighbor  Dowlas  ;  and  if  at  last  he  do  not 
love  you  as  fondly  as  ever  man  loved  his 
wife,  1  shall  be  hugely  mistaken." 

'•  Eh  ?  What  ?  Love  7ne  V  exclaimed  her 
companion,  looking  in  a  famous  wonder. 
"  But  I  marvel  you  should  make  jest  of  it. 
I  would  not  in  such  a  case  I  promise  you  ; 
but  it  glads  me  infinitely  to  say  there  is  no 
fear  of  such  a  thing.  My  Timothy  giveth 
me  no  sort  of  uneasiness." 

"  Indeed  !"  cried  her  neighbor,  seeming 
in  a  greater  amazement  than  the  other  had 
been. 

"  I  would  your  husband  would  take  a  pat- 
tern of  him." 

"  I  would  nought  of  the  kind,  neighbor 
Malmsey,"  quickly  ejaculated  the  draper's 
wife,  with  a  very  absolute  earnestness.  "  1 
like  not  my  husband  to  be  ever  a  running  af- 
ter another  man's  wife,  seeking  of  unlawful 
favors  of  her,  as  for  years  past  Master 
Malmsey  hath  done  to  me,  I  promise  you." 

"  My  Timothy  run  after  you,  neighbor 
Dowlas  !"  screamed  out  the  vintner's  wife, 
bounding  from  her  seat  in  as  absolute  as- 
tonishment as  ever  was  seen. 

"  By  my  troth,  yes,"  answered  her  com- 
panion. 

"  Oh  the  horrid  villain !"  exclaimed  the 
other. 

"  He  is  ever  pestering  of  me  with  his 
foolish  flatteries  and  protestations  of  love, 


4a 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


and  the  like  poor  stuif,"  added  tlie  draper's 
wife.  "  I  have  no  rest  from  him  when  1 
have  such  ili-hap  as  to  be  in  iiis  company. 
Nay,  as  I  came  in  licrc  he  would  needs 
have  a  kiss  of  me  at  the  .«tair-foot,  imt  1  ujj 
with  m)'  hand  and  gave  him  so  rude  a  sa- 
lute on  the  car,  I  doubt  not  I  have  taken  all 
conceit  of  such  favors  out  of  his  head." 

"  Oh,  the  abominable  caitifl"!"  cried 
neigiibur  Malmsey. 

"  1  liked  not  telling  you  of  it,  thinking  it 
might  vex  J'ou,"  continued  the  other,  "  so 
I  bore  it  as  good  liumoredly  as  I  could,  and 
should  not  have  spoke  of  it  now  had  you 
not  begun  the  subject  upon  my  entering  of 
the  room." 

"  'Twas  of  Master  Dowlas's  shameful 
behavior  to  ine  1  was  speaking,"  .said  the 
vintner's  wife.  "  He  hath  followed  nie  up 
and  down  for  years  in  this  vvay,  spite  of  all 
I  could  say  or  do." 

"  What,  my  Jonathan !"  now  cried  the 
other,  starting  from  her  chair  in  a  greater  to 
do  than  her  companion  had  been.  '•  The 
ab:-olute  wretch  I  But  I  will  bo  even  with 
him,  I  warrant  you.  Please  you,  neighbor 
Malmsey,  to  leave  the  revenging  of  the 
wrong  done  us  by  these  pitiful  hypocrites  ; 
it  shall  be  done  after  such  a  sort  as  shall 
{)unish  them  handsomely  for  their  intended 
villainy,  and  in  remembrance  of  it,  keep  tiiem 
from  all  such  baseness  for  the  future." 

"That  will  I,  and  willingly,  gossip,"  an- 
swered her  coui])anion  with  the  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "  But  he  hath  oft  pressed  me  to  give 
him  a  private  meeting,  prithee,  say  what  I 
had  best  do." 

"  1  have  a  merry  cousin  of  mine,  who 
will  help  us  in  this  purpose  of  ours,"  replied 
neighbur  Dowlas.  "  So  you  must  e'en  in- 
vite him  to  sup  with  you  alone  at  Widow 
Pippins.'  I  will  do  the  same  with  my  wor- 
shipful gallant,  and  if  you  learn  your  part  of 
me,  we  will  have  as  exquisite  sport  as  ever 
misused  woman  had  of  a  vile  husband." 

"  Rely  on  uie,"  said  neighfoi  Malmsey. 
"  But,  as  I  live,  ]  hear  the  voice  of  your 
precious  partner  talking  to  mine  on  the 
stair-i'oot !"  exclaimed  she. 

"  Doubtless  they  will  both  make  for  iiere, 
so  do  you  as  I  have  said,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  my  managing,"  added  the  other.  She 
had  scarce  said  the  words,  and  they  had  re- 
seated themselves,  when,  as  they  appeared 
intent  upon  some  deep  discourse,  there 
entered  Master  Alderman  ])(iwlas,  with  his 
usuat  great  soberness  of  manner,  having  his 
brother  alderman  behind  him  in  a  jesting 
humor,  as  he  seemed,  as  if  (|uite  forgetful  vl' 
the  box  of  the  ear  he  had  just  had. 

"  Perdio  !  here  is  one  about  to  send  the 


town  crier  after  you,  fair  Mistress  Dowlas  I" 
exclaimed  he,  making  up  to  her  as  gallantly 
as  ever. 

"  Indeed,  I  have  marveled  hugely  on  ac- 
count of  your  long  stay  aliroad,  knowing 
not  how  you  had  disjjosed  of  vourself,"  said 
the  dra[)er.  "  But  I  am  wonderfully  con- 
tent to  find  you  in  such  admirabl*^  company. 
And  how  doth  my  fair  life  ?"  whispered  he, 
glancing  at  his  friend's  wife  most  enamor- 
edly,  as  he  followed  her  to  a  distant  part  of 
the  chamber,  and  vowing  and  entreating  and 
flattering  of  her,  as  though  it  weredcme  for 
a  very  wager.  iNor  was  Master  Malmsey 
in  any  way  behind  him  in  such  ill-doing,  as 
may  be  supposed,  for  he  sat  down  with  his 
back  to  the  other,  before  Mistress  Dowlas, 
exercising  of  his  tongue  with  the  movingest 
expression  he  could  think  of,  and  gazing  at 
her  comeliness  as  though  it  were  the  rarest 
feast  for  the  eye  that  the  whole  world  con- 
tained. Neither  thought  of  glancing  to- 
wards where  was  his  wife.  Indeed,  each 
was  too  intent  on  what  he  was  about  to  heed 
what  the  other  was  a  doing,  not  imagining 
such  a  thing  as  his  friend  attempting  of  the 
same  thing  as  he  was  himself  straining 
might  and  main  to  accomplish.  Howsoever, 
in  the  space  of  a  few  moments  this  private 
talk  was  broke  up,  manifestly  to  the  excee- 
ding contentation  of  these  worthless  hus- 
bands. 

'•  What  an  absolute  fool  is  neighbor  Malm- 
sey, that  he  looketh  not  closer  after  his 
wife  !"  thought  Master  Alderman  Dowlas, 
as  he  descended  the  stair  loolung  solemn  as 
an  owl. 

'■  What  a  \ery  ass  is  neighbor  Dowla.s, 
that  he  cannot  see  that  I  am  making  love  to 
his  wife  before  his  face  ?"  thought  the  vint- 
ner, with  an  inward  chuckle  of  satisfaction 
at  his  own  cleverness  and  better  fortune. 

All  that  day  the  draper  appeared  in  a 
most  exquisite  satisfaction  with  himself. 
The  .'^eriousnesss  of  his  aspect  was  otl  dis- 
turbed with  a  happy  smile,  and  as  the  noon 
wore  out,  he  kept  ever  asking  of  the  hour. 

"  Dame,"  said  he  at  last,  after  he  had 
spent  a  wonderful  time  in  washing  and 
decking  himself  out  in  his  best  appirel,  till 
he  looked  as  s|)ruce  and  stiff  as  a  roll  of 
buckram ;  "  there  is  a  certain  gotlly  man 
over  at  HillslR)rough,  that  1  have  promised 
neighbor  Hurdle  to  go  and  hear  preach  this 
night;  if,  penidventure,  I  should  tarry  long, 
prithee,  gi't  thee  to  bed  betinu's.  1  am  loath 
thy  rest  should  be  shortened  by  waiting  up 
for  me." 

"  Marry !  I  should  like  to  go  myself  to 
hear  the  g(X)d  man,"  observed  his  wife, 
somewhat  miscliicvously  by  the  way,  "  for 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


43 


methinks  his  preaching  cannot  help  being  ]  the  widow  Pippins.     There  was  she  leaning 
as  ifood  for  rne  as  for  you."'  '  on  her  elbows  over  the  railing,  as  if  watch- 

"  But  the  distance  is  for  too  great  for  thy  1  ing  for  him,  her  brown  face  crinkling  upon 


walkintT,  dame,  else  shouldst  thou  without 
fail,"  replied  he  very  readily. 

"  Nay,  but  I  walked  to  Barston  last 
Shrovetide,  which  is  a  good  mile  longer," 
Raid  she.  "  I  doubt  not  such  a  jour- 
ney will  do  me  an  especial  good  service, 
to  say  nought  of  the  godliness  of  it." 

"  Indeed,  I  would  take  thee  with  all  my 
heart,"  added  her  husband,  "  but  since  the 
last  rains  some  parts  of  the  road  are  utterly 
impassible  for  huge  deep  ponds  that  go  right 
across." 

"  Then  will  we  borrow  John  a  Combe's 
grey  horse,  and  I  will  ride  behind  you  on  a  pil- 
hon,"  answered  his  wife,  as  if  desirous  to 
bring  him  to  a  nonplus. 

"  O'  my  life  !  I  cannot  wait  to  go  a  bor- 
rowing now,  so  I  must  e'en  wisla  thee  good 
bye,  and  take  thee  another  time,"  replied 
Master  Dowlas  ;  and  tlien,  as  if  fearful  she 
would  more  strongly  desire  to  go,  as  quick 
as  he  might  he  took  himself  straight  out  of 
the  house.  Scarce  had  he  entered  the 
street  when  he  was  hailed  by  his  jolly 
neighbor  opposite,  standing  at  his  door  in 
his  Sunday  jerkin  and  new  gallygaskins, 
as  finely  trussed  as  ever  he  was  when  a 
good  score  years  younger.  To  his  question 
where  was  he  going  so  tine,  the  draper  an- 
swered as  he  had  told  his  wife,  then  Master 
]\Ialmsey  declared  to  the  other  that  as  his 
good  dame  had  gone  a  visiting  to  her  aunt's, 
he  intended  making  a  night  on't  with  a  few 
choice  spirits  at  his  cousin  Birch's.  Thus 
each  were  deceived,  and  each  laughed  in  his 
sleeve  at  the  other's  credulity. 

Jonathan  Dowlas  proceeded  on  his  way, 
hugging  himself  in  his  own  conceit  at  the 
pass  he  had  brought  matters  to  with  the 
buxom  Mistress  Malmsey,  till  he  came  to 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  where  was  a  small 
imi  known  as  "  The  Rose,"  kept  by  the 
widow  Pippins,  in  famous  repute  for  her 
careless  free  humor,  and  fondness  for  jests 
of  all  sorts.  The  building,  or  buildings,  for 
there  seemed  more  than  one,  were  connected 
by  a  wooden  gallery  that  run  across  right 
in  front  of  the  yard,  on  one  side  of  which  lay 
the  more  respectable  portion  of  the  tenement, 
with  its  boarded  front  covered  with  grapes, 
that  hung  in  famous  clusters  even  up  to  the 
thatch.  The  other  part  looked  to  be  the  sta- 
bles, pigsties,  and  the  like  sort  of  places. 
Jonathan  made  for  the  entrance  holding  up 
his  head  as  high  as  he  might. 

"  Ha,  ha !  Master  Alderman,  art  there  !" 
exclaimed  a  voice  from  the  gallery,  and 
looking  up,  the  draper's  eye  caught  sight  of 


her  red  arms,  like  a  rasher  of  bacon  on  the 
burning  coals.  Perchance  she  might  be 
laughing,  but  Jonathan  Dowlas  was  not 
nigh  enough  to  see  very  distinctly.  Get 
thee  in  quick,  I  prithee,  and  I  will  be  with 
thee  straight." 

The  alderman  obeyed  her  bidding  with  a 
stately  alacrity,  and  he  had  scarcely  got 
fairly  housed  when  he  was  met  by  mine 
hostess,  whose  still  bright  eyes,  albeit  though 
she  was  a  woman,  somewhat  advanced  in 
years,  twinkled  witli  a  most  merry  mali- 
ciousness. 

"  Follow  me,"  whispered  she,  evidently 
striving  to  suppress  a  laugh,  and  then  giving 
him  a  sly  nudge  and  a  wink,  added,  "  Oh, 
thou  villain  !"  led  the  way  to  a  chamber, 
of  the  which  she  had  scarce  closed  the  door, 
when  she  burst  out  into  a  long  loud  laugh, 
the  draper  looking  on  as  though  he  knew 
not  what  to  make  of  it.  "  By  my  fay,  now 
who  would  have  thought  of  this  !"  exclaim- 
ed she,  holding  of  her  sides,  and  looking 
at  him  with  exceeding,  yet  with  a  mon- 
strous ludicrous  intentness.  "  Where  didst 
get  the  powder  to  make  so  exquisite  fair  a 
woman  so  infinitely  in  love  with  thee  as  is 
Mistress  Malmsey?"  The  alderman  re- 
laxed somewhat  in  the  seriousness  of  his 
aspect  at  hearing  this  intelligence.  "  She 
dotes  on  the  very  ground  thou  dost  walk 
on  !"  continued  she,  and  the  alderman  smiled 
outright.  "  But  who  would  have  suspect- 
ed this  of  one  so  serious  as  thou  art  ?  O 
my  womanhood  !  what  a  very  rogue  thou 
art !"  saying  which  she  fetched  Master 
Dowlas  so  sore  a  thump  on  the  back,  that  it 
went  some  way  towards  the  knocking  of 
him  oif  his  legs. 

"  Poor  Master  Malmsey  !"  cried  she,  as 
plainly  as  she  could  in  the  midst  of  lier 
laughing,  "  Alack  !  he  hath  no  suspicion  of 
his  wife's  huge  fondness  for  thee,  I'll  be 
bound  for't.  Knowing  of  thy  notable  grav- 
ity, he  cannot  have  the  slightest  color  of 
jealousy.  But,  I  charge  thee,  use  her  with 
a  proper  handsomeness.  She  is  none  of 
your  light  madams — she  hath  a  most  gentle 
spirit,  and  is  the  very  delicatest,  sweetest 
creature  I  ever  came  nigh."  Then  fixing 
on  him  a  look  in  which  seriousness  and 
mirth  seemed  striving  for  the  mastery,  she 
cried,  "  Go  to,  for  a  sly  fox !"  and  hitting 
o[  him  just  such  another  thump  as  she -gave 
him  a  moment  since, — with  a  fresh  burst 
of  laughter — she  left  him  to  himself. 

Jonathan  found  that  he  was  in  a  long 
narrow  chamber,  strewed  with  rushes,  v/iLh 


44 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


a  door  at  each  end,  and  one  at  the  side,  at 
which  ho  had  enteied — having  in  the  mid- 
dle a  small  table  set  out  for  supper,  with  a 
larger  one  at  the  further  end  of  the  ciiamber, 
completely  covered  with  a  cloth  that  fell 
down  to  the  ground  on  all  sides  of  it,  and  it 
was  fairly  hung  round  with  arras,  some- 
what the  worse  for  its  antiquity,  for  it 
gaped  ia  some  places  sadly.  He  had  hard- 
ly noticed  these  things  when  the  douv  at 
the  bottom  of  the  room  opened,  and  there 
entered  Mistress  Malmsey,  clad  in  her  very 
gayest  attire,  and  looking,  as  the  alderman 
thought,  more  biooiriing  than  ever  ho  had 
seen  her.  He  with  an  exceeding  formal 
eort  of  gallantry,  hastened  to  get  a  chair 
for  her,  expressing  of  his  extreme  rapture 
at  her  goodness  in  giving  him  this  appoint- 
ment, and  then  sat  himself  down  as  close 
to  her  as  he  could,  taking  her  hand  very 
lovingly  in  his,  and  commencing  his  fa- 
mous fine  compliments,  protestations,  and 
entreaties,  with  an  earnestness  that  he  im- 
agined was  sure  of  prevailing  with  any 
woman.  The  vintner's  wife  answered  witli 
some  coyness,  that  convinced  him  what  the 
widow  Pippins  had  said  was  true  enough, 
and  he  straightway  redoubled  his  exertions, 
fully  assured  that  bis  success  witli  her  was 
beyond  all  doubting. 

"  Divinest  creature!"  exclaimed  the 
enamored  draper,  looking  at  liis  companion 
as  lack-a-daisical  as  a  hooked  gudgeon, 
"  fairest,  sweetest,  super-finest  she  alive  I 
I  do  assure  thee  my  atVections  be  of  the  best 
nap,  and  will  wear  in  all  weathers,  and  I 
will  give  thee  such  liberal  measure  of  my 
love  as  shall  make  thee  infinitely  loath  to 
have  dealings  elsewhere." 

"  Alack,  men  are  such  deceivers!"  cried 
Mistress  Malmsey.  "  They  soon  depart 
froui  what  they  promise." 

"  Count  me  not  as  such.  I  pr'ythee,"  re- 
plied the  alderman,  "  I  am  warranted  fast. 
I  do  assure  thee,  I  am  none  of  such  poor 
fabrics — I  am  of  the  finest  quality,  even  to 
the  fag  end.  Uh,  cxquisilest  Mistress 
Malmsey,  an'  you  do  not  take  pity  on  me 
straight,  I  must  needs  lie  on  the  shelf  like 
a  considerable  remnant,  of  whicii  the  fash- 
ion hath  gone  out  of  date." 

"  Hush  !  as  I  live,  there  is  my  husband's 
voice  !"  ticre  exclaimed  the  vintner's  wife, 
to  the  great  alarm  of  her  lover,  and  both 
staited  uj)  together,  seeming  ni  a  wonderful 
riurprise  and  affright. 

"  Whiit  lio  !  house  hero  I"  shouted  Mas- 
ter Alderman  Malmsey,  from  the  stair 
foot. 

"  Hide  thee,  good  master  Dowlas,  or  I 
am  lost,"  exclaimed  the  vintner's  wife,  and 


before  Jonathan  could  look  about  him,  she 
had  vanished  ont  of  the  bottom  door ;  but 
he  was  not  allowed  time  to  think  what  he 
should  do  in  such  a  dilemma,  for  he  heard 
the  footsteps  of  his  neighbor  cJose  upon  the 
door,  so,  as  speedily  as  he  could,  he  crept 
under  the  table  at  the  further  end  of  the 
room,  imagining  that  the  other  was  merely 
j)aying  of  a  passing  visit,  as  he  was  pro- 
ceeding to  his  cousin  Birch's,  and  would 
tarry  but  a  short  time.  Here  he  lay  snug- 
ly ensconced,  not  daring  to  peep  out  for 
fear  he  should  be  seen.  Presently,  in 
came  the  jolly  vintner,  humming  of  a  tune, 
and  bandying  jests  with  the  widow  Pippins, 
who  led  the  way  with  a  light — it  getting  to 
be  nigh  upon  dark — and,  by  her  loud  laugh- 
ing, was  in  as  fine  a  humor  at  beholding 
him  in  her  house,  as  she  had  before  been  at 
seeing  his  neighbor. 

"  Odds  pittkins,  what  a  jest !"  cried  the 
merry  widow,  putting  the  light  upon  the 
supportable.  "Happy  man!"  added  she, 
looking  on  him  as  seriously  as  she  could, 
and  then  giving  him  a  sly  poke  on  the  ribs, 
exclaimed,  as  plain  as  her  loud  laughing 
would  allow,  '•  but  what  a  monstrous  poor 
fool  is  her  husband!"  At  which  saying  of 
hers.  Master  Malmsey  joined  in  tlie  laugh 
right  earnestly. 

'•  There  is  never  such  an  ass  in  Strat- 
ford," said  he,  when  his  mirth  would  allow 
him  words.  He  is  so  weak  of  conceit  in 
the  matter  that  he  will  allow  of  my  making 
love  to  his  wife  before  his  eyes.  But  mum, 
widow — mum's  the  word,"  said  he,  myste- 
riously, "  I  should  not  like  of  his  knowing 
what  kindness  I  am  doing  him.  Mayhap 
he  would  take  it  somewhat  uncivil  of  me. 
So  be  close,  widow,  I  prithee. 

"  As  a  fox,"  replied  the  other  knowingly. 

"  Dost  not  think,  a  man  who  takcth  no 
better  heed  of  his  wife,  ought  to  be  so  serv- 
ed ?"'  inquired  the  vintner. 

"  O'  my  troth,  yes  !"  answered  the  widow, 
breaking  out  into  a  fresh  peal  of  laughter ; 
"  And  trust  me,  I  woidd  think  it  good  sport 
to  help  make  a  fool  of  him." 

"  I  thank  thoe  exceedingly,"  said  Master 
Malmsey. 

"Nay,  thou  hast  small  cause  of  thanks, 
believe  me.  Master  Alderman,''  replied  his 
merry  companion,  with  the  tears  ruiming 
down  her  cheeks  from  sheer  mirth  ;  "  I  do 
it  out  of  good  will — out  of  good  will,  1  do 
assure  thee."  Then  nudging  him  o'  the 
elbow,  having  an  exceeding  sly  lix)k  with 
her,  she  added —  "  Art  thou  not  a  rogue, 
now, — an  especial  njgue — a  very  cozening 
rogue,  to  make  the  fiower  of  all  Stratford 
to  be  so  taken  with  thee  .'" 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


45 


"  It  Cometh  entirely  of  her  fool  of  a  hus- 1 
band,"  answered  the  vintner,  chuckling 
mightily.  "  He  would  allow  of  our  being 
together  at  all  times,  and  v."as  ever  thrust- 
ing of  her,  as  it  were,  into  my  arms.  How 
could  I  help  myself.  I  am  but  a  man,  and 
she  so  exquisite  sweet  a  creature !  So, 
whilst  he  was  humming  and  hawing  to  my 
good  dame,  I  had  her  up  in  a  corner,  ma- 
king of  love  to  her  bj'^he  hour  together."' 

"  Fie  nn  thee.  Master  Alderman  !"  said 
she,  shaking  her  head  as  if  with  a  famous 
seriousness.  "  Thou  art  a  dangerous  man 
for  any  poor  woman  to  be  witii,  so  I  will 
e'en  be  quit  of  thy  company.  Ffaith  thou 
art  a  sad  rogue."  Then  I'etching  iiim  a 
poke  i'  the  ribs  that  made  him  gasp  for 
breath,  she  hurried  out  of  the  room  laugh- 
ing more  heartily  than  ever. 

Al!  this  made  Jonathan  Dowlas  prick  up 
his  ears,  and  he  marvelled  hugely  who  could 
be  the  frail  wife  his  neighbor  was  enamored 
of  as  he  had  had  no  suspicion  of  such  a  thing ; 
whereof  the  knowledge  of  it  he  had  now 
gained,  made  hiin  think  of  his  designs  on 
Mistress  Malmsey  a  proper  punishment  for 
his  brother  alderman's  unpardonable  con- 
duct towards  his  friend,  whoever  he  might 
be.  Full  of  all  sorts  of  speculations  on  the 
matter,  he  remained  in  his  hiding  place 
without  moving,  for  he  could  hear  the  vint- 
ner humming  of  a  tune,  and  walking  to  and 
fro,  and  was  cautious  his  hiding  pla(;e  might 
not  be  discovered.  Presently  the  door 
opened  and  some  one  entered,  whom  Master 
Malmsey  addressed  in  such  a  manner  as 
made  Jonathan  feel  assured  it  was  tlie  very 
woman  the  other  declared  he  so  loved.  She 
answered  in  so  small  a  voice  she  could  not 
be  well  heard  in  the  draper's  hiding  place  ; 
and,  in  a  minute  after,  the  two  seated  them- 
selves at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  where, 
although  he  had  heard  each  word  his  neigh- 
bor spoKe,  because  of  the  gi'eater  loudness  of 
his  speech,  of  his  companion  distinguished 
he  never  a  word,  it  seemed  to  be  uttered  in 
such  a  whisper.  The  extreme  movingness 
of  the  vintner's  speech  at  last  tilled  his 
neighbor  with  so  absolute  a  curiousness  to 
know  who  it  was  the  other  was  so  intent 
upon  loving,  that  he  began  with  wonderful 
cautiousness,  to  lift  up  a  part  of  the  table 
cover,  so  that  he  might  take  a  peep  without 
bemg  seen. 

The  first  thing  he  got  sight  of  was  neigh- 
bor Malmsey,  kneeling  on  one  knee  with  his 
hand  to  his  heart,  with  nothing  but  the  most 
desperate  and  uncontrollable  affection  in  his 
looks,  and  such  an  absolute  irresistibleness 
in  his  speech,  tliat  it  was  as  if  no  woman 
must  stand  against  it.      Before  him  was 


seated  a  female  very  prettily  attired,  whose 
face  being  somewhat  in  the  shade,  and  a 
little  turned  from  him,  blaster  Dowlas  could 
not  at  all  make  out.  The  candle  wanted 
snuffing  abominably,  or  perchance  he  would 
have  seen  better. 

"  Prithee  turn  not  away  those  lustrous 
eyes,"  exclaimed  the  vintner  in  a  rare  im- 
passioned manner ;  '•  the  poor  knave  thy 
husband  heedeth  not  their  brightness  ;  and 
that  most  delicious  lip,  that  rivaleth  my 
choicest  wines  in  the  tempting  richness  of 
its  hue, — why  should  such  a  sorry  fellow  as 
he  is  have  its  flavor  to  himself,  who  mani- 
festly careth  net  for  it.  All  my  heart 
longeth  but  for  a  taste.  My  dear  sweet, 
prithee  allow  it  but  this  once.  I  will  be 
bound  to  thee  ever  after.  I  will  hold  thee 
in  more  regard  than  my  chiefest  customer. 
Come,  we  dally  with  opportunity.  I  will 
be  bold  and  steal  it  an'  thou  wilt  not  give 
after  so  much  asking."  Just  at  tliis  mo- 
ment the  speaker  made  an  effort  as  if  to 
salute  his  companion,  and  she  moving  at 
the  same  time  brouglit  her  full  face  to  the 
light,  and  Jonathan  Dowlas  beheld  his  own 
wife.  A  clap  of  thunder  would  not  have 
startled  him  more  than  such  a  discovery ; 
indeed  so  monstrous  was  he  moved  at  it 
that  he  clean  forgot  where  he  was,  and 
rising  quickly  hit  himself  so  sore  a  crack  o' 
the  crown  against  the  table,  that  he  could 
do  nought  for  some  minutes  after  but  rub 
his  pate  and  vow  vengeance  against  his 
false  wife  and  wicked  treacherous  neigh- 
bor. 

"  By'r  lady  now,  I  must  go  up,"  cried  Mis- 
tress Malmsey  from  belovv',  so  loud  that  all 
heard  her. 

"  O'  my  troth,  here  is  your  wife  coming, 
and  if  she  catch  us  I  shall  be  undone  !"  ex- 
claimed Mistress  Dowlas,  immediately  after 
which  the  unhappy  draper  heard  the  shuifling 
of  feet,  and  he  was  left  in  darkness. 

"  Now  if  Ills  wife  come  here,  I  will  have 
excellent  revenge,"  thought  he.  Presently 
he  heard  a  door  open,  and  some  one  cry  out 
in  a  whisper — '•  JJaster  Alderman,"  where- 
upon he  stealthily  left  his  hiding  place. 

"  Hist !"  cried  he,  fumbling  his  way  on  tip- 
toe across  the  room. 

"  Hist !"  replied  some  one  else,  evidently 
making  towards  him  with  as  little  noise  as 
possible. 

"  Prithee  where  art,  my  honey  sweet  ?" 
inquired  the  former ;  '•  since  thy  departure 
here  hath  been  that  most  wretched  villain,  thy 
husband,  seeking  to  do  me  the  most  mon- 
strous wickedness  with  my  \viie  ;  but  if  I  pay 
him  not  handsomely  there  is  no  smoothness 
in  velvet.     Come  hither  quick,  my  dear  Ufe, 


46 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


for  I  am  impatient  to  have  thee  in  my  most 
fond  embrace  !" 

"  Ha,  indeed  I"  cried  Master  MalmFey, 
who  had  hid  himself  behind  the  arras  wlien 
his  fair  companion  had  ran  off  with  the  light, 
and  hcarinjf  a  voice  cry  "  Master  Alderman," 
crept  out,  thinking  she  had  returned  to  him. 
"  Take  that  and  be  hanged  to  thee  !"'  where- 
upon he  made  a  blow  ;  but,  being  in  the  dark> 
he  hit  nothing. 

"  Villain,  art  there !"  exclaimed  Master 
Dowlai^  in  as  towcringa  rage  as  his  neighbor; 
"  let  mc  but  got  at  thee,  I'll  maul  thee  I  war- 
l-ant ;"  and  both  proceeded  to  strike  the  empty 
air  in  a  most  terrible  passion  ever  seen — ever 
and  anon  giving  the  panels  such  famous 
thumps,  tliat  it  made  their  knuckles  smart 
again. 

"  Dost  call  this  going  to  hear  a  godly  man 
at  Hillslwrough,  thou  traitorous  caitiff?"  sar- 
castically asked  the  vintner,  hitting  on  all 
sides  of  him,  and  jumping  here  and  now 
there,  in  his  desire  to  punish  his  false  neigh- 
bor. 

"  Ay,  marry,  as  much  as  it  be  going  to 
Cousin  Birch's,'"  retorted  the  other,  coming 
on  more  cautiously  and  with  less  noise,  yet 
no  less  intent  on  vengeance.  In  consequence 
of  the  one  being  so  wonderful  quick  in  his 
movements,  and  the  other  so  quiet  he  could 
not  be  heard  moving,  there  was  no  harm  done 
for  a  g(X)d  space,  save  by  hurting  themselves 
ptumbling  over  chairs  and  the  like,  which  was 
Bure  to  make  he  who  was  hurt  in  a  greater 
rage  than  ever,  and  to  be  more  intent  upon 
having  his  vengeance  of  the  other.  It  would 
have  been  a  goodly  sight  to  have  seen  this 
precious  pair  of  husbands,  if  they  could  have 
l3een  seen  in  the  darkness,  each  so  earnest 
upon  punishing  of  the  other  for  the  same 
thing  he  was  himself  guilty  of,  and  giving 
Vent  to  no  lack  of  ill  names  and  execrations, 
which  he  who  uttered  quite  as  richly  merited 
as  ho  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  At  last 
the  vintner  got  within  an  open  door  at  the 
top  of  the  room,  where  the  draper  pounced 
upon  him  like  a  cat,  and  as  tliey  were  tuss- 
ling away  with  all  their  might  it  was  closed 
behind  them  and  fastened  witliout  their  know- 
ledge. Neither  had  the  slightest  idea  he  was 
now  in  a  difT'oront  cliambcr,  for  in  truth  nei- 
ther had  tiuie  to  give  the  matter  a  thought, 
each  liii.ving  enough  to  do  to  defend  himself 
from  the  (ilher's  hearty  cutis,  sometimes  roll- 
ing together  on  the  Hoor,  and  anon  hustling 
each  other  on  their  legs,  yet  with  no  great 
damage  to  (Mtlier.  After  some  minutes  spent 
this  way  both  left  off,  being  comj)letely  out 
of  breath  with  their  great  e.xertions.  Some- 
what to  their  astonishment  they  heard  loud 
bursts  of  laughter  from  the  adjoining  cham- 


ber, and  noticing  the  light  streaming  from 
under  the  door,  both  impelled  by  the  same 
curiousness,  crept  softly  towards  it.  Jona- 
than Dowlas  stooped  to  take  a  peep  at  the 
keyhole ;  Timothy  Malmsey  put  his  eye  to  a 
crack  in  the  panel, — each  was  aware  of  the 
other's  vicinity,  but  not  a  word  was  said  by 
either.  They  looked  and  beheld  a  supper- 
table  well  laid,  at  which  two  handsome  gal- 
lants, clad  in  delicate  suits,  with  rapier  and 
dagger,  were  regaling  themselves  and  mak- 
ing merry,  evidently  to  their  heart's  content- 
ment ;  whilst  the  Widow  Pippins  stood  by  as 
if  waiting  upon  them,  and  giving  them  a  nar- 
ration, whicii  she  seemed  as  tliough  she  could 
scarce  tell  for  laughing. 

"  Indeed,  an'  it  please  your  worships,  it 
be  the  very  excellentest  trick  ever  I  heard 
of,"  said  she,  holding  of  her  sides.  "  Here 
came  these  poor  fools  of  husbands,  each  des- 
perately enamoured  of  his  friend's  wife, 
v.'hich  these  merry  women  allowed  of  only 
that  they  might  the  better  punish  them  as 
they  deserved.  I'  faith,  what  wittols  must 
they  have  been  to  have  fancied  themselves 
likely  to  prevail  with  such.  They  ought  to 
have  known  that  when  a  pretty  woman  is  so 
inclined  she  looketh  to  something  above  her. 
There  is  no  temptation  in  it  else.  Little 
guess  Master  Dowlas  and  Master  Malmsey, 
that  tis  to  your  worships  they  care  for,  and 
none  other." 

"  Here's  a  horrid  villainy  come  to  light !' 
muttered  the  draper. 

"  Oh,  what  a  vile  quean  have  I  for  a 
w'fe  !"  exclaimed  the  enraged  vintner  in  the 
same  low  voice. 

"  Little  guess  they  how  often  you  two 
have  had  secret  meetings  here  with  their 
buxom  wives,"  added  the  widow  ;  "  or  what 
exquisite,  sweet  pleasure  you  have  found  in 
their  delectable  company." 

"  O'  my  word,  neighbor,  methinks  we  have 
been  foully  wronged  !"  cried  Jonathan  in  a 
monstrous  dismal  tone. 

"  'Slight,  there  be  no  doubt  on't !"  an- 
swered Timothy,  manifestly  in  a  still  wurse 
to  do.     '•  Alack  !  my  head  aches  horribly." 

"  By  my  troth,  I  do  feel  a  sort  of  shooting 
pain  there  myself,"  added  the  other,  rubbing 
his  forehead  with  his  palm  very  dolefully. 

"  I  pray  your  worships,  make  haste,"  con- 
tinued the  laughing  widow.  "  Tiicrc  is 
Mistress  Malmsey  below  stairs,  and  Mistress 
Dowlas  in  the  next  chamber,  wonderfully  im- 
patient to  have  with  them  their  several  lov- 
ers. Never  saw  I  women  so  dote  on  men  as 
they  dote  on  your  worships.  Alack  for  their 
simple  husbands  !" 

"  We've  been  infamously  abused,  neigh- 
bor !"  exclaimed  the  draper,  whilst  the  otiiers 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE- 


47 


in  the  next  chamber  were  laughing  very 
merrily.  "  As  I  live,  we  are  two  miserably 
wretched  husbands."  And  thereupon,  may- 
hap out  of  sympathy  for  his  brother  in  mis- 
fortune, he  threw  his  arms  around  hia  neck, 
and  moaned  very  pitifully. 

"  God's  precious  !  I  shall  go  mad !"  cried 
the  vintner,  lifting  up  one  leg  and  then  the 
other,  like  a  goose  treading  on  hot  bricks. 
"  But  shall  we  not  burst  in  on  these  dainty 
gallants,  neighbor,  and  spoil  their  sport  ?" 

"  Nay,  nay,  see  you  not  they  have  weap- 
ons," whispered  his  more  cautious  compa- 
nion. "  Peradventure  they  would  give  us 
our  deaths  were  we  to  venture  upon  them 
unarmed.  Let  us  seek  to  get  out  of  this 
place  as  speedily  as  we  may,  and  find  assist- 
ance ;  doubtless  we  shall  be  in  time  to  dis- 
turb them  at  their  villanies,  and  so  rid  our- 
selves of  our  cozening  felse  wives,  and  be  re- 
venged on  their  param-ours." 

"Ha!  prithee  set  about  it  on  the  instant," 
said  the  other  ;  "  then  Master  Dowlas  began 
feeling  of  his  way  along  the  wainscot  with 
his  brother  alderman  close  at  his  heels  do- 
ing the  like  thing,  till  they  came  to  a  door, 
which  was  soon  opened  by  the  former,  and 
to  the  great  joy  of  both,  proved  to  lead  out 
into  the  gallery.  From  here  they  were  not 
long  before  they  found  themselves  in  the 
parlor  of  the  house,  where  was  a  famous 
company  assembled  of  their  friends  and 
neighbors,  among  whom  were  John  Shak- 
speare,  the  high  bailiff,  and  Oliver  Dumps, 
the  constable.  These  were  quickly  informed 
of  the  grievous  wrong  doing,  in  such  moving 
terms,  that  the  wliole  party,  arming  them- 
selves with  what  weapons  they  could  conve- 
niently lay  a  hold  on,  proceeded  under  the 
command  of  their  chief  magistrate  to  seize 
upon  the  offenders. 

"  What  a  villainous  world  is  this  !"  ex- 
claimed Oliver,  putting  on  his  most  melan- 
choly visage.  '"  Marry,  an'  aldermen's  wives 
must  needs  take  to  such  evil  courses,  how 
shall  a  constable's  wife  escape  ?" 

They  soon  burst  into  tlie  chamber,  where 
they  found  the  two  gallants  up  in  a  corner 
with  their  backs  towards  them,  with  the  Wi- 
dow Pippins  standing  in  a  manner  as  though 
she  would  not  have  her  guests  rudely  med- 
dled with. 

"  Hollo,  my  masters  !"  exclaimed  she. — 
"  Are  j^e  mad — that  ye  enter  thus  unman- 
nerly before  two  gentlemen  of  worship  ?" 

"  Mind  her  not,  neighbors — she  is  nothing 
better  than  a  very  villainous  go-between  !"' 
exclaimed  Master  Aldennan  Malmsey  in  his 
deadly  rage  flourishing  of  a  spit  he  had  got 
in  his  hand,  as  if  he  would  do  one  or  other 
of  them  some  dreadful  injury. 


"  These  be  the  same  two  fine  fellows  that 
must  needs  be  meddling  with  our  wives  : — ■ 
I  will  take  my  oath  on't !"  cried  Master  Al- 
derman Dowlas,  in  a  horrible  bad  passion, 
pointing  towards  them  with  the  kitchen  po- 
ker. 

"  Down  with  them  !"  shouted  one. 

"  Let  us  dispatch  them  straight !"  bawled 
a  second. 

"  ^Y  goles,  we  will  be  their  deaths — the 
monstrous  villains  that  cannot  let  honest 
men's  wives  alone,"  cried  a  third  ;  and  all 
seemed  moving  forward  with  mischief  in  their 
looks. 

"  Respect  the  law,  neighbors,  respect  the 
law  !"  exclaimed  the  constable,  striving  all 
he  could  to  repress  the  desire  for  instant 
vengeance  so  manifest  in  his  companions. 

"  Ay,  we  must  have  no  violence,  my  mas- 
ters," added  John  Shakspeare.  "  If  these 
persons  have  done  aught  amiss,  I  will  take 
care  they  shall  answer  for  it,  but  I  cannot  al- 
low of  their  being  hurt." 

"  Oh,  what  monstrous  behavior  is  this  in 
an  honest  woman's  house  !"  cried  the  Wi- 
dow Pippins. 

'•  Stand  aside,  mistress,  I  prithee,"  ex- 
claimed Oliver  Dumps,  pushing  by  the  wi- 
dow, and  seizing  hold  of  one  of  the  gallants 
by  the  siioulder,  added,  in  a  louder  voice, 
'•  surrender  you  in  the  Queen's  name." 

"  Now,  neighbor  Dowlas,"  said  John 
Shakspeare,  "look  you  in  the  face  of  thia 
one,  and  say  if  you  can  swear  him  to  be  the 
villain  that  playeth  the  wanton  with  your 
wife ;  and  you,  neighbor  Malmsey,  do  the 
same  with  the  other." 

"  I  warrant  you,"  replied  both,  moving 
with  alacrity,  and  with  the  terriblest  re- 
vengeful aspects  ever  seen,  to  do  what  their 
high  bailiff  had  required.  Each  caught  hold 
of  one  of  the  dainty  young  gentlemen  with 
great  rudeness,  and  poked  his  beard  close  in 
his  face,  and  each  at  the  same  moment 
started  back  as  though  he  had  been  shot, 
amid  the  loud  laughter  of  every  one  in  the 
room.  These  gallants  proved  to  be  no 
other  than  their  own  wives  ;  and  all  been 
let  into  the  secret  by  them  for  the  more 
more  complete  punishing  of  their  faitiiless 
husbands. 

"  Go  to,  for  a  sly  fox  !"  cried  the  Widow 
Pippins,  giving  Master  Dowlas  just  such 
another  famous  slap  of  the  back  as  she  had 
saluted  him  with  on  his  first  entrance  to  the 
chamber.  "  I'faith,  thou  art  a  sad  rogue." 
added  she,  fetching  Master  Malmsey  so  ab- 
solute a  poke  i'  the  ribs  that  it  put  the  other 
poke,  bad  as  he  had  thought  it,  clean  out  of 
his  remembrance.  The  jests  that  were 
broke  upon  these  poor  aldermen  by  their 


48 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


neighbors  were  out  of  all  calculation,  and 
they  were  so  ashamed  they  could  say  never 
a  word  for  themselves.  And  indeed  they 
made  a  famous  pretty  figure — their  be^-t  ap- 
parel being  all  covered  with  dust  and  broken 
rushes  from  rolling  on  the  Hoor,  and  their 
hands  and  faces,  iiairand  beards,  instead  of 
being  in  such  delicate  trim  as  when  they 
iirst  entered  "  The  Rose,"  were  in  as  dirty  a 
pickle  as  was  any  chimney-sweep's.  How- 
ever, they  ever  ai'lcr  turned  out  to  be  the  best 
of  husbands,  and  would  as  lief  have  taken  a 
mad  bull  by  tlie  horns  as  sought  to  make  love 
to  another  man's  wife. 


CHAPTER  V. 

And  then  (he  whining  school-boy 
With  satchel  and  shining  morning  face, 
Creeping,  like  snail,  wiwillingly  to  school. 
Shaksfeake. 
Some  there  are, 
Vv''hich  by  sophistic  tricks,  aspire  that  name 
Whicli  I  would  gladly  lose,  of  necromancer  ; 
As  sOine  that  used  to  juggle  upon  cards, 
iSeeming  to  conjure,  wlieu  indeed  they  cheat ; 
Others  that  raise  up  their  confederate  spirits 
'Bout  winduiills,  and  endanger  their  own  necks 
For  making  of  a  squib  ;  and  some  there  are 
Will  keep  a  curtal  to  show  juggling  tricks, 
And  give  out  'tis  a  spirit ;  besides  these, 
Such  a  whole  ream  of  almanack-makers,  figure- 

flingcrs, 
Fellows,  iiulecd,  that  only  live  by  stealth, 
Since  tliey  do  tnercly  lie  about  stolen  goods, 
They'd  maRe  men  think  the  devil  were  fast  and 

loose, 
With  speaking  fustian  Latin. 

Webster. 

"  Bring  hither  thy  hat.  William,  I  prithee, 
'tis  nigh  upon  school  time,"  said  Dame 
Shakspeare  to  her  young  son,  as  they  were 
together  in  her  chamber. 

"  Ay,  that  is  it,"  replied  he,  doing  what  he 
was  desired  with  a  very  cheerlul  spirit. 
"  'Sooth,  though  I  lack  knowing  what  man- 
ner of  pleasure  is  found  in  school,  mothinks 
it  must  needs  be  none  so  little,  nurse  Cicely 
speaketh  of  it  so  bravely."  The  mother 
carefullv  smoothed  the  hat,  and  jdaced  it  on 
hor  child's  head,  smiling  tlu;  wliilst  either  at 
what  had  just  fallen  fnun  liim,  or  mayhap  at 
his  exceeding  comeliness,  now  she  had,  after 
infinite  painstaking,  attired  liim  wilii  such  a 
show  of  neatness  and  cleanliness  as  made 
him  appear  wortliy  of  any  mother's  love, 
were  she  the  proudest  in  the  land. 

"  Nay,  school  Imth  its  pains  also,"  replied 
she ;  "  but  such  arc  unknown  of  any,  save 


unworthy  boys,  who  care  more  for  play  than 
for  book,  and  will  learn  nothing  tliat  is  set 
them." 

"  Well,  an'  they  behave  so  ill,  it  be  plain 
they  deserve  no  better,"  observed  the  hoy. — 
"  Yet  it  seemeth  to  me  from  what  I  have 
learned  of  nurse  Cicely  in  ballads  and  sto- 
ries, and  from  such  sweet  stories  as  you  have 
otttimes  repeated  tome  concerning  of  brave 
knights  and  fair  ladies,  that  if  other  pleasures 
of  a  still  sweeter  sort  are  to  be  found  in 
books,  whereof  you  can  know  only  by  going 
to  school  and  coiming  your  lesson  with  all 
proper  diligence,  school  cannot  help  being  as 
pleasant  a  place  for  good  boys  as  any  goodly 
place  that  can  be  named." 

"  Doubtless,"  answered  the  mother,  evi- 
dently pleased  at  noting  in  her  son  such  sen- 
sibleness  at  so  early  an  age.  Then  she  bu- 
sied herself  in  putting  each  part  of  his  dress 
as  it  should  be,  smoothing  this,  and  pulling 
down  that,  and  turning  him  round  with  a 
thorough,  yet  most  affectionate  scrutiny,  that 
no  fault  should  c:^cape  her.  At  last,  she 
appeared  satisfied  with  her  labors,  and  hang- 
ing round  his  neck  a  satchel,  that  looked  as 
if  it  contained  no  great  weight  of  books,  she 
quickly  put  on  her  own  hat  and  cloak,  and, 
laying  hold  of  him  by  one  hand,  carrying  of 
a  basket  in  the  other,  with  many  cheerful, 
pleasant  words  to  his  unceasing  interrogato- 
ries, she  led  him  out  at  the  door. 

The  good  dame  and  her  young  son  pro- 
ceeded together  through  a  part  of  the  town, 
with  such  passing  commendation  and  salu- 
tations from  such  of  the  neighbors  as  were 
standing  at  their  doors  or  approaching  them 
as  they  went,  till  they  came  to  the  lane 
where  John  a  Combe  was  set  on  by  Master 
Buzzard  and  his  man  Saul,  as  hath  been  re- 
lated, when,  in  the  middle  of  some  speech  of 
his,  the  boy  let  go  his  mother's  hand,  and  so 
forgetful  of  school,  of  goodly  books,  and  of 
sweet  verses — which  had  formed  the  staple 
of  his  talking  all  along — as  though  such 
things  had  never  been,  he  on  a  sudden,  dart- 
ed of}'  as  fast  as  lie  could  after  a  butterliv 
that  came  fiying  past  him.  Dame  Shak- 
spcare  called  many  times,  but  it  appeared  as 
if  he  heard  not  her  voice,  for  with  his  hat  in 
his  hand  he  run,  now  on  one  side  of  the  lane, 
now  on  the  otiu^r,  and  now  dodaing  hither 
and  thither  wheresoever  the  daintv  insect 
spread  its  delicate  wings,  as  if  there  could 
not  he  in  tliis  whole  world  any  one  thing  of 
such  huge  importance  to  him  as  the  catching 
of  that  buttertly.  At  last,  his  mother  was 
obliged  to  hasten  after  him,  finding  ho  heed- 
ed not  her  calling,  called  she  ever  so,  and 
succeeded  in  overtaking  her  little  truant, 
just  as  lie  stood,  with  his  hat  tlirown  on  Uie 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


49 


grass  in  a  vain  essay  to  catch  what  he  had 
been  in  such  earnest  chase  of — with  hands 
and  eyes  uphtted,  watching  with  some  vex- 
edness  in  his  aspect,  the  swift  retreat  of  the 
enticing  insect  over  the  hedge. 

Some  scolding  followed  this  as  the  good 
dame  wiped  her  son's  hot  face,  and  dusted 
and  smoothed  his  hat,  and  set  it  on  his  head 
again ;  but  he  made  such  famous  excuses 
concerning  of  the  maiTelous  beautifulness 
of  this  same  buttertiy  beyond  all  butterflies 
he  had  ever  seen,  that  the  loving  mother 
contented  herself  in  the  end  with  kissing 
him,  and  bidding  him  never  again  run  from 
her  side.  The  great  delight  he  had  found 
in  what  he  had  previously  talked  so  largely 
of  now  left  him  altogether,  and  he  could  say 
nought,  save  of  what  rare  pleasure  would 
have  been  his  had  it  been  his  good  hap  to 
have  captured  that  choice  fly,  with  sundry 
pertinent  questions  concerning  of  whence 
came  such  brave  toys,  how  lived  they,  and 
whether  they  could  not  be  kept  at  home,  and 
fed  on  marchpane,  and  such  other  deUcates 
as  he  could  give  them,  to  all  which  she 
answered  as  she  best  could.  On  a  sudden 
he  started  a  new  subject,  for  spying  of  many 
wild  flowers  on  the  bank  he  must  needs  stop 
to  gather  some.  In  vain  his  mother  re- 
minded him  of  what  great  promise  he  had 
made  of  diligence  in  learning,  and  alacrity 
in  going  to  school,  he  implored  so  movingly, 
she  could  not  help  allowing  him  what  he  re- 
quired of  her ;  and  this  led  to  his  stopping 
at  other  flowers  he  saw,  to  do  the  like  thing, 
making  such  pretty  exclamations  of  admira- 
tion at  the  sight  ot  them,  that  the  good  dame 
could  not  rind  it  in  her  heart  to  speak  of 
his  tarrying  as  he  did,  with  any  harslmess. 
Presently,  a  bird  flitting  through  the  hedge, 
would  make  iiim  pause  in  a  strange  wonder 
to  look  after  it ;  and  all  his  talk  of  flowers 
in  a  moment  changed  to  as  importimate  a 
questioning  upon  the  birds.  Indeed,  school 
now  seemed  to  have  no  more  charrn  for  liim 
than  hath  the  brightest  landscape  for  a  blind 
man ;  and  he  kept  so  tarrying  for  this  thing 
and  tor  the  other,  as  showed  he  was  in  no 
little  reluctance  to  be  taken  away  from  such 
fair  sights. 

Cerces,  it  is  a  long  lane  that  hath  no  turn- 
ing, and  the  boy,  with  his  mother,  got  at  last 
to  their  journey's  end,  which  proved  to  be  a 
low  mean  building  at  the  ovUskirts  of  the 
town,  whereof  pare  of  the  casement  having 
been  broken,  tlie  missing  panes  had  been 
pasted  over  with  leaves  of  copy-books.  It 
was  a  wooden  building,  crumbling  with  age 
in  many  places,  with  a  ragged  thatch,  of 
so  dark  a  color  it  could  not  help  being  of 
some  standing,  imdemeath  wliich  were 
4 


sundry  nests,  with  the  birds  flying  in  and 
out ;  and  upon  it,  up  to  the  roof-top,  was  a 
famous  company  of  sparrows,  flitting  about 
and  making  so  great  a  chirruping  as  was 
wonderful  to  hear.  The  door  being  open, 
there  was  heard  a  low  murmuring  as  of  the 
humming  of  a  whole  hive  of  bees,  which 
increased  in  loudness  as  they  came  nearer, 
till  it  was  inteiTupted  by  a  loud  rough  voice, 
caUing  out  "  Silence  ! "'  when  it  sunk  a  little. 
At  tliis  moment  they  entered  at  the  door. 
They  came  first  into  a  chamber  with  a  brick 
flooring,  where  they  saw  a  number  of  small 
boys  ;  some  seated  upon  old  forms,  clipped 
at  the  comers,  and  carved  with  letters  of 
every  sort,  as  might  be  seen  by  the  empty 
ones  ;  and  otliers,  in  groups,  standing  before 
one  or  two  bigger  boys,  each  of  whom  held 
a  book  as  if  hearing  others  their  lessons ; 
but  as  soon  as  the  strangers  were  obser\'ed, 
there  was  seen  on  the  instant,  an  infinite 
lack  of  both  learning  and  teaching  amongst 
all.  One  whispered  to  another  —  others 
pointed — and  some  stood  up  to  have  a  better 
view;  and  all  stretched  their  necks,  and 
strained  their  eyes,  in  a  very  absolute  mar- 
vel, as  to  the  intent  of  the  dame  and  her  son 
in  coming  there  at  that  time. 

The  two  were  curiously  and  steadfastly 
gazed  on  by  every  boy  there,  as  tliey  ad- 
vanced up  two  steps  that  led  to  a  part  of 
the  same  chamber,  having  a  boarded  floor, 
where  were  some  long  desks,  at  which 
bigger  boys  had  been  WTiting  of  copies,  with 
one  of  a  greater  height  at  the  top,  where 
sat  on  a  tafl  stool  no  less  a  personage  than 
Stripes  the  shoolmaster,  of  whom  the  reader 
hatli  already  some  knowledge.  He  sat  up 
stift'  as  a  post ;  his  gaunt  visage  as  thin  and 
sharp  as  though  his  ordinary  diet  was  of 
flint  stones,  or  other  such  matter  that  aflbrd- 
etii  wonderful  poor  nourishment ;  his  hair 
and  beard  standing  in  great  need  of  the  bar- 
ber's art ;  an  old  gaberdine  on,  which  for  its 
rags  the  cursedest  old  .lew  that  ever  cUpped 
coin  would  have  been  ashamed  to  have  been 
seen  in ;  his  falling  bands  rumpled  and 
soiled ;  his  bases  open  at  the  knees,  and  his 
hose  in  slovenly  folds  falling  down  his  shrunk 
shanks  to  his  heels,  where  a  pair  of  huge 
pantofles,  of  the  oldest  out  of  aU  doubt,  hid 
111  some  measure  the  numberless  holes  that 
had  there  begun  to  show  themselves.  He 
held  a  cane  upright  in  one  hand,  and  in  the 
other  a  book,  having  before  him  a  boy,  who 
by  the  earnest  scratching  of  Iris  head,  and  the 
iutentness  of  liis  gaze  at  the  broken  ceiling, 
had  doubtless  come  to  a  halt  in  liis  lesson ; 
and  his  dull  stupid  face  wore  an  aspect  of 
severe  seriousness,  which  boded  no  good  to 
the  young  student.    But  for  all  this   as  he 


50 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SRAJCSPEARE. 


caught  sif^ht  of  Dame  Shakspeare  with  her 
son  advancing  towards  him,  the  cane  was 
put  out  of  sight  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
and  a  sort  of  something  that  was  meant  to 
be  a  smile  became  visible  in  his  cadaver- 
ous countenance,  as  he  gave  the  unprepared 
scholar  back  his  book,  and  bade  liim  to  his 
place. 

Marvelous  to  look  on  was  the  suavity  with 
which  the  pedagogue  lieard  Dame  Shaks- 
peare say  she  had  brought  her  son  \Villi;im 
to  have  his  schooling,  hoping  he  would  prove 
an  apt  scholar ;  thereupon  famously  did  he 
launch  out  into  all  manner  of  fine  scholar- 
like phrases,  whereof  it  was  in  no  way  easy 
for  any  to  find  where  lay  the  sense,  and  then 
proceeded  he  to  catechise  the  child  in  a 
monstrous  pedantical  humor,  and  to  examine 
him  as  to  the  extent  of  his  acquirements  in 
the  rudiments  of  profane  learning  ;  and  al- 
though tiic  boy  showed  some  shyness,  which 
was  exceeding  natural  at  liis  age,  before  so 
forbidding  a  person,  yet,  by  dint  of  his 
motlier's  praises,  he  was  got  to  evince  a 
tolerable  acquaintance  with  the  spelling  of 
simple  words.  All  this  time  tlie  curious- 
ness  of  the  entire  school  exceedeth  concep- 
tion. No  sign  of  studiousness  was  visible 
in  any  ;  instead  of  which  the  eyes  and  ears 
of  the  whole  assembly  were  bent  upon  get- 
ting the  couipletest  knowledge  of  what  was 
going  on ;  and  whilst  some  of  tlje  highest 
part  uf  the  school  kneeled  on  their  seats,  or 
leaned  over  their  school-fellows,  sundry  of 
liie  bottom  part  stood  on  their  forms,  and  a 
few  crept  up  the  steps,  with  countenances 
all  agog  to  learn  as  much  as  they  could  of 
tills  strange  matter. 

"  And  1  have  brought  you  here  a  fine 
capon  for  your  own  eating,  worthy  Mr. 
Stripes,"  said  Dame  Shakspeare  to  the 
schoolmaster,  whose  mouth  seemed  to  water 
at  the  very  name  of  such  delicate  food,  as 
she  took  from  her  basket  a  fowl  carefully 
wrapped  about  in  a  clean  white  cloth  ;  "  the 
whicli  I  hope  will  prove  to  your  liking,  and 
I  do  trust  you  will  favor  me  in  what  my 
heart  most  covets,  so  mucli  as  to  give  what 
attentiveness  you  can  to  my  boy's  schooling, 
that  he  may  do  you  credit  in  his  after 
years." 

"  I  am  a  very  heathen  an'  I  do  not," 
replied  he,  taknig  the  gift  with  a  famous 
willingness. 

"  Tlien  I  will  now  leave  him  to  your 
charge,"  observed  tlie  dame,  and,  kissing  of 
her  young  son,  witii  a  loving  admonition  to 
be  a  good  boy  and  speed  in  his  learning,  she 
departed  out  the  door.  Stripes,  first  placing 
of  his  new  scholar  amongst  others  of  his 
age  in  the  lower  room,  which  movement  of 


his  caused  a  famous  show  of  studiousness 
amongst  all  the  boys  he  came  nigh,  and 
setting  him  a  lesson,  returned  to  his  desk  ; 
and  then,  undoing  the  cloth,  examined  the 
capon  both  with  his  eyes  and  his  nose, 
with  such  extreme  satisfaction,  it  lfx)ked  as 
though  he  cared  not  to  wait  for  the  cooking. 
At  last,  putting  it  in  the  cloth  again,  he 
marched  with  it  out  at  a  door  close  upon  his 
desk,  feasting  his  eyes  upon  it  as  he  went. 
Scarce  had  the  door  well  closed  upon  him, 
when  there  arose  such  a  hubbub  in  the 
school,  of  talking  and  shouting  one  to 
another  of  all  the  boys  concerning  of  the 
new  comer ;  those  who  had  some  know- 
ledge of  his  parentage  telling  others  who 
had  none,  and  some  of  the  bigger  boys 
leaving  their  places  to  have  a  closer  view  of 
him,  or  a.sk  him  questions,  as  seemed  to 
astonish  William  Skakspeare  exceedingly  ; 
but  he  was  not  allowed  to  be  in  a  long 
marvel,  for  the  door  opened  presently,  and 
then  there  was  an  instant  scuttling  to  places, 
and  an  infinite  affection  of  attentiveness 
everywhere.  Speedily  as  this  was  done  it 
escaped  not  the  eye  of  the  master,  who 
seized  on  his  cane  in  a  twinkling  as  soon 
as  he  had  entered,  with  an  eye  of  severe 
menace,  and  tlmndered  out  his  commands  for 
sundry  of  the  offenders  to  come  up  to  him 
without  delay  ;  for  although  he  was  so  ob- 
sequious in  his  spirit  before  Sir  Nathaniel 
and  others  he  was  fearful  of  oflfending,  no 
greater  a  tyrant  ever  lived  than  was  he  to  his 
scholars. 

"  So,  Jemmy  Sheepshanks  !"  cried  he,  as 
the  first  offender  approached  him  with  some 
backwardness ;  "  prithee,  what  need  hadst 
out  of  thy  proper  seat  without  any  color  of 
warrant,  tliou  horribly  abominable  young 
caitiff"?" 

•'  An'  it  please  you,  master,  I  only " 

"  Silence !"  shouted  the  pedagogue  in  a 
voice  that  appeared  to  make  tlie  little  cul- 
prit shake  in  his  shoes. 

"  Art  not  ashamed  to  have  acconunodated 
thy  wortiilessness  with  the  graces  of  my 
instruction  for  so  long  a  time  as  thou  hast, 
and  never  so  much  as  brought  me  a  single 
egg,  much  less  a  fine  capon,  such  as  worthy 
Dame  Shakspeare,  on  her  first  coming,  hath 
appurtenanced  me  with — and  thy  mother 
having  such  a  prodigal  store  of  poultry? 
By  Jove,  his  searching  thunders  !  thou  art 
as  barren  of  good  fruit  as  a  whipping-post. 
I'rithee,  hold  me  thy  digital  extremity." 

"  In  g(X)d  fay<  master,  1  only  went " 

"  Tiiy  hand,  Jemmy  Sheepshanks!"  bawl- 
ed Stripes,  in  a  maimer  which  brought  forth 
a  right  dolorous  wailing,  and  the  tremulous 
projection  of  a  palm  of  considerable  dirtiness 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


61 


a  few  inches  before  the  offender's  stomach. 
"  Elevate  it  somewhat!"  continued  he,  eye- 
ing the  shaking  fingers  as  a  vulture  would 
the  prey  he  was  about  to  sweep  down  upon. 
"  Somewhat  more .'"  added  he  in  a  louder 
voice ;  and  whack  went  the  descending  cane 
across  the  dirty  little  hand.  "  Ya  !"  scream- 
ed the  boy,  and  thereupon  he  doubled  him- 
self up  as  if  he  had  an  inward  pain  of  great 
fierceness,  and  then  he  shook  his  hand  and 
rubbed  it  against  his  jerkin,  and  held  it  in 
the  other,  as  though  he  had  a  hot  cinder  in 
it,  and  made  such  a  yelling  all  the  whilst 
as  was  pitiful  to  hear. 

"  And  now  thy  sinister  manus ;  for  me- 
thinks  it  be  very  monstrous  injustice  one 
should  'scape,  and  the  other  not,"  observed 
the  schoolmaster,  getting  his  weapon  in 
readiness. 

"  Nay,  o'  my  life,  good  Master  Stripes  !" 
roared  the  urchin  in  a  deprecating  tone ; 
but  he  was  not  let  off  so  easily,  for  the  left 
hand  presently  fared  as  badly  as  the  right, 
and  then,  with  a  parting  crack  o'  the  crown 
ior  jerking  his  hand  away,  so  that  the  peda- 
gogue missed  it  more  than  once.  Jemmy 
Sheepshanks  in  a  terrible  uproar  was  sent 
back  to  his  seat.  The  rest  of  those  who  had 
been  called  up  looked  on  as  though  they 
would  have  given  all  they  were  worth  to 
have  been  a  good  hundred  miles  from  the 
spot.  The  other  boys  were  studying  of 
their  separate  tasks  with  a  seeming  dili- 
gence that  could  never  have  been  exceeded, 
and  their  new  schoolfellow  was  tliinking  in 
his  mind,  from  this  first  example  he  had  had 
of  school,  it  was  no  such  brave  place  after 
all.  Each  of  the  offenders  went  througli 
the  same  discipline,  save  the  last,  and  was 
as  well  reminded  as  the  first  had  been  of 
certain  remissness  on  his  part  in  not  having 
brought  some  nice  thing  or  other  for  their 
worthy  master. 

"  Ha,  Mat  Turnspit  I  thou  art  most  su- 
perlatively offensive  !"  exclaimed  the  peda- 
gogue, looking  at  the  remaining  one  with 
the  sam_e  savage  aspect  as  had  been  the 
forerunner  of  the  other's  punishments.  "  I 
have  cast  up  the  sum  of  thy  offences,  the 
product  whereof " 

"  An'  it  please  you,  master,  father  killed 
a  hog  last  night,"  cried  out  the  boy  sharply, 
yet  not  without  some  trepidation. 

"  Marry,  what  then  ?  The  particulars — 
the  conclusion,  I  prithee  !"  cried  his  master. 

"  An'  it  please  you,"  answered  little  Mat, 
"  mother  told  me  to  say,  an'  your  worship's 
stomach  stood  in  any  way  affected  towards 
pig's  chitlings,  she  would  send  you  as 
famous  a  dish  of  them  as  should  delight  the 
cockles  of  your  heart  mightily." 


"  Thy  mother,  I  would  wager  to  be  as 
honest  a  woman  as  any  of  her  inches,"  ob- 
served Stripes,  his  aspect  of  a  sudden  chang- 
ing to  an  absolute  graciousness.  "  And 
touching  pig's  chitlings,  I  would  have  thee 
communicate  to  her  auditories,  I  consider 
them  a  savoury  diet  as  any  thing  that  can 
be  eaten,  and  will  accept  of  a  dish  with 
abundance  of  thanks.  As  for  thyself.  Mat 
Turnspit,  I  doubt  not  thou  hadst  excellent 
cause  for  being  out  of  thy  seat.  Get  thee 
back  again  straight,  and  be  sure  thy  re- 
membrance plays  not  the  truant  with  the 
pig's  chitlings." 

After  this,  the  first  class  were  called  up 
to  their  reading  lesson,  and  putting  up  their 
copies,  each  holding  of  a  book,  presently 
stood  in  a  half  circle  before  their  teacher, 
who,  seated  on  his  high  stool,  with  his  cane 
in  his  hand,  and  the  lesson  before  him, 
never  failed  to  apply  the  former  to  the  palms 
of  such  as  were  amiss  in  their  reading — 
constantly  commenting  on  the  exceeding 
properness  of  behavior  shown  by  Dame 
Shakspeare  and  Dame  Turnspit,  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  fat  capon  and  the  pig's  chitling's. 
All  this  while  there  was  a  famous  thinking 
going  on  in  the  young  mind  of  the  new 
scholar,  whose  faith  in  the  pleasantness  of 
schools  diminished  with  every  blow  he  heard 
given,  till  at  last  he  came  to  the  conclusion, 
that  it  was  the  very  horriblest  bad  place  he 
had  ever  entered  :  nevertheless  he  applied 
himself  to  his  lesson  as  earnestly  as  he 
might,  with  no  greater  interruption  than 
what  came  from  some  little  neighbor  sliding 
up  to  him  with  a  civil  speech,  intent  upon 
being  on  the  best  terms  with  a  schoolfellow 
so  well  recommended  to  their  master. 

As  Stripes  was  very  furious  lecturing  of 
a  boy,  about  to  undergo  the  customary  dis- 
cipline, the  door  behind  him  opened,  and 
there  appeared  at  it  a  strange  looking  object 
in  the  likeness  of  an  overgrown  boy.  To 
all  appearance,  the  schoolmaster  looked  as 
lean  a  dog  as  ever  licked  an  empty  trencher, 
but  he  was  of  a  very  corpulency  in  com- 
parison with  the  walking  bunch  of  bones 
known  throughout  the  town  as  Skinney  Dick- 
on, the  schoolmaster's  boy,  that  now  entered 
the  school-room.  His  face  had  the  project- 
ing jaws  of  a  ravenous  crocodile,  with  the 
complexion  of  a  kite's  foot,  and  his  rusty 
hair  straggled  over  his  skull  like  a  mop 
worn  to  the  very  stump— this  was  support- 
ed on  a  long  thin  neck  bare  of  all  clothing 
to  the  shoulder  blade,  where  a  leather  jerkin, 
made  for  a  boy  half  his  size,  was  buttoned 
tight  with  a  small  skewer  (for  lack  of  but- 
tons, which  had  all  been  worn  off),  whereof 
the  sleeves  came  only  to  his  elbows,  show- 


62 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


ing  his  naked  arms,  like  the  picked  drum- 
sticks of  some  huge  fowl,  with  the  claw  left 
on.  A  pair  of  greasy  gaskins,  that  seemed 
as  though  they  had  been  made  for  a  grass- 
hopper, encased  the  lower  part  of  his  body 
to  his  knees,  below  which  two  bare  legs,  as 
barren  of  calf  as  an  andiron,  descended  till 
tliey  were  partly  lost  sight  of  in  two  old 
shoes,  whereof  the  wide  gaping  of  the  upper 
leathers  told  plainly  of  the  whereabouts  of 
the  owner's  ten  toes. 

"How  now,  Dickon!''  exclaimed  his 
master,  as  soon  as  he  became  aware  of  the 
other's  vicinity. 

"  An'  it  pul-pul-pul-pul,  please  your  wor- 
ship, the  kick-kick-ivick-kick  cat's  run  off 
with  the  kick-kick-kick-kick  capon." 
Scarce  iiad  the  words  got  loose  from  the 
chopping  teeth  of  his  stuttering  boy,  ere 
Stripes  jumped  from  his  stool  with  a  ludi- 
crous astounded  look,  and  brushing  by  his 
intelligencer  with  such  furiousness  as  to 
lay  hnn  his  length  on  the  floor,  sought  the 
thief,  swearing  all  sorts  of  horrible  oaths 
and  direful  imprecations ;  after  running 
frantically  to  and  fro,  the  enraged  school- 
master spied  puss  on  a  shelf  in  an  outhouse, 
tearing  up  tlie  flesh  of  the  fowl  after  a 
fashion  as  evinced  her  appreciation  of  its 
goodness.  She  was  an  old,  large,  black 
animal,  whose  projecting  ribs  manifested 
the  like  relationship  with  famine  as  appear- 
ed in  the  master  and  boy  ;  and  made  despe- 
rate by  extreme  hunger,  she  raised  her  back, 
glared  with  her  green  eyes,  and  commenced 
so  brisk  a  spitting  and  swearing,  as  the 
schoolmaster,  in  a  terrible  tearing  passion, 
began  cutting  at  her  with  his  cane — though 
at  a  respectful  distance — as  proved  siie 
would  not  be  got  to  part  with  her  prize  with- 
out a  tustle  ;  and  mayhap  he  would  have 
been  but  badly  oil"  had  she  flown  at  iiim,  tlie 
which  she  appeared  monstrously  inclined  to 
do,  but  at  this  moment  she  spied  Dickon 
hastening  to  tlie  rescue  with  the  stump  of  a 
broom,  which  caused  her  to  make  a  move- 
ment as  though  she  would  carry  oil'  her 
booty — however,  before  she  had  got  a  tinn 
hold  of  the  fowl  with  her  old  teeth,  Dickon 
gave  her  so  sore  a  blow  with  his  weapon  as 
sent  her  flying  off  the  shelf  into  an  open 
water-butt  that  stood  a  yard  or  so  off  wherc>- 
upon  she  was  glad  enough  to  save  her  nine 
lives  the  best  way  she  could,  as  if  capons 
had  never  been. 

This  occurred  not  without  some  stir  in 
the  sciiool ;  but  scarce  had  Stripes  returned 
to  his  desk  after  placing  of  his  heart's  trea- 
sure in  a  place  of  safety,  when  his  anatomy 
of  a  boy  again  made  his  appearance  at  the 
open  door,  at  sight  of  whom  he  opened  his 


lanthom  jaws,  quite  aghast  with  surprise, 
thinking  that  the  villainous  cat  had  again 
made  away  with  his  dainty ;  but  Dickon 
came  only  to  announce  the  arrival  of  one 
Mother  Flytrap  on  an  errand  of  conjuring, 
which  speedily  allayed  his  master's  alarm. 
Dismissing  the  class  to  their  seats  with  a 
perilous  threat  kept  they  not  as  quiet  as 
mice  till  his  return,  the  pedagogue  stalked, 
with  an  air  of  marvellous  solemnity — little 
in  accordance  with  his  slovenly  gaunt  rigure 
— into  an  inner  chamber,  meanly  furnished 
with  an  old  table  and  a  chair  or  two,  yet, 
having,  in  the  shape  of  a  globe  in  the  win- 
dow, a  snake  in  a  bottle  over  the  chimney, 
and  a  curious  hieroglyphic  book  spread  out 
upon  the  table  :  various  signs  that  it  was 
in  especial  use  for  learned  purposes.  A 
little  woman,  whose  shrivelled  skin  savored 
of  some  antiquity,  stootl  in  a  corner  of  the 
chamber,  in  a  grey  cloak  and  peaked  hat, 
leaning  with  both  hands  upon  a  stick  she 
held  before  her. 

"  An'  it  please  your  worship,"  began  she, 
parting  the  exceeding  closeness  of  her  nose 
and  chin,  and  hobbling  two  steps  forward 
as  Stripes  entered,  "  be  it  known  to  you,  of 
all  the  days  in  the  year,  last  Wednesday 
was  a  week,  wanting  of  a  spoon  for  a  gossip 
of  mine — as  wortliy  a  good  soul  as  ever 
broke  bread,  for  all  it  hath  been  said  of  her 
she  taketh  to  her  aquse  vitee  bottle  more  than 
is  becoming  an  honest  woman  : — but  Lord  ! 
Lord  ?  who  shall  escape  tlie  bruit  of  slander- 
ous tongues  in  this  cantankerous  age  ; — as 
I  was  a  saying,  over  a  sea-coal  Are,  at  Dame 
]\Iarigold's — who  was  making  as  famous  a 
bowl  of  spiced  ale,  with  a  roasted  crab,  as 
ever  passed  mortal  lips.  Indeed,  of  all 
women  1  know,  an'  it  please  your  worship, 
she  cxcellcth  in  the  brewing  of  such  deli- 
cate liquor ;  and  last  sheep-shearing  I  did 
hear  little  Jack  Maggot,  of  Maggot  Mill — 
he  that  got  his  head  broke  at  a  bout  at  single 
stick  with  Job  Styles,  the  hedger  of  our 
town — say  he  knew  none  of  these  parts  that 
had  such  cunning  in  tliese  preparations. 
Mercy  o'  my  heart !  I  have  known  the 
time  when  Job  Styles  was  better  off  than 
he  is,  by  a  good  ten  crowns  a  year.  But 
we  are  all  mortal." 

"  Hast  lost  a  spoon  ?"  enquired  the  school- 
master, when  his  companion  stopped  to  take 
breath. 

''  Ay,  marry,"  rejilied  Mother  Flytrap, 
"  as  goodly  a  silver  Evangelist  as  you  shall 
find  come  of  any  god-father;  and  the  only 
one  of  the  four  left.  U'  my  word,  it  vexeth 
me  to  find  the  world  growetli  every  day 
more  dishonrst ;  and  no  more  heed  is  taken 
of  so  goodly  a  gift  as  an  Evangelist  spoon. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


53 


than  of  a  dish  of  beans.  Well — flesh  is 
grass  :  so  it's  what  we  must  all  come  to — 
more's  the  pity — more's  the  pity." 

"  When  lost  thou  this  spoon  ?"'  asked 
Stripes. 

"  Marry,  an'  it  please  your  worship,  I 
know  not,"  replied  his  companion  ;  "  but 
last  Wednesday  was  a  week,  as  I  have  said, 
when  it  was  getting  nigh  upon  noon,  I  had 
made  me  a  porridge  fit  for  tlie  Sopiiy,  with 
good  store  of  leeks  in  it,  for  my  dinner, 
when  w"ho  should  enter  at  my  door  but 
Gammer  Bavins,  whoso  son  went  to  the 
wars  and  died  beyond  seas  ;  whereupon  de- 
siring of  her  to  rest  herself,  as  in  all  civil- 
ness  1  was  bound,  seeing  that  her  mother's 
cousin's  great  uncle  and  my  grannum 
were  cousins  -  german,  I  asked  of  her 
to  have  some  of  my  famous  porridge,  to 
the  which  she  cheerfully  gave  her  consent- 
ings  ;  and  thinking  "twould  be  but  respect- 
ful of  me  to  allow  of  her  having  a  silver 
spoon  instead  of  a  lattern  one,  the  whilst 
she  w'as  telling  of  me  an  excellent  famous 
story  of  what  brave  eating  was  in  porridge 
such  as  she  was  wont  to  make  for  her  gafier 
when  he  came  home  from  the  woods — for 
your  worship  must  know  he  had  been  a 
woodman,  and  of  some  repute  in  the  craft — 
and  how  monstrously  he  took  to  it  when 
she  could  chop  in  a  handsome  piece  of  bacon 
fat,  with  a  pinch  of  mustard — though  for 
mine  own  part  methinks  good  hog's  lard  in 
some  quantity,  with  a  sprinkling  of  bay  salt, 
giveth  much  the  delicater  flavor " 

"  So  the  spoon  was  missing  ?"  here  put 
in  the  schoolmaster. 

"La  you!  what  a  wonderful  conjuror  is 
your  worship  !"'  exclaimed  Mother  Flytrap, 
lifting  up  her  hands  and  eyes  in  amazement ; 
"  ay,  was  it :  and  though  I  have  since  search- 
ed high  and  low  in  every  crack  and  cranny 
hole  and  corner  from  housetop  to  floor,  if  I 
have  caught  as  much  as  a  gUmpse  of  it 
there  is  no  hotness  in  ginger.  Peradven- 
ture " 

"  Thou  hast  come  to  learn  of  thy  missing 
spoon  ?"■  said  Stripes,  knowing  full  well 
should  he  let  her  run  on,  there  would  be  no 
stopping  of  her  tongue. 

"  Odds  codlings,  yes,  an'  it  please  you," 
replied  she  :  "  well  !  never  saw  I  your  like 
at  finding  out  things  :  as  I  live  I  said  not  a 
word  of  the  sort.  Mayhap  your  worship 
knoweth  whom  I  suspect  of  stealing  it ;  and 
by  my  trotli  I  doubt  not  it  shall  be  found 
without  some  grounds,  for  she  hath  the  re- 
putation of  a  horrible  pilferer." 

"  Thy  suspicions  rest  upon  a  woman  !" 
answered  Stripes  with  a  very  proper  solem- 
nity. 


"  A  grace  of  God !  your  worship  must 
needs  have  dealings  with  the  old  one !"  cried 
his  companion  in  a  famous  astoni.shment ; 
"  Marian  Loosefish  be  as  nigh  lo  a  woman 
as  ever  she  will  be,  for  she  hath  had  two 
children  and  never  a  husband,  and  hath 
been  thrice  put  into  the  stocks  for  misbe- 
comingness.  But  we  are  all  mortal.  More's 
the  pity — more's  the  pity  !" 

"And  thou  wouldst  have  me  ascertain  by 
virtue  of  my  art,  with  what  correctness  thou 
dost  suspect  this  woman  '?"  added  the  school- 
master. 

"  Ay,  dear  heart,  out  of  all  doubt,  and  I 
have  brought  your  worship  as  exquisite  nice 
a  black-pudding  as  ever  was  made,"  an- 
swered the  other,  producing  from  under  her 
cloak  a  large  sausage  of  this  sort,  which 
her  com{)anion  eased  lier  of  with  man'ellous 
alacrity ;  "  and  will,  besides,  give  your  wor- 
ship a  tester  for  your  pains,  provided  you 
can  put  the  stealing  of  it  upon  her  with  such 
certainty  she  shall  never  be  able  to  deny  it, 
and  so  I  get  back  my  spoon  again." 

"  Prithee  stay  where  tliou  art,  and  keep 
strict  silence,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  with 
a  very  earnest  seriousness,  as  he  took  a 
long  black  wand  out  of  a  corner,  and  put  on 
his  head  a  strange  looking  conical  cap  of  a 
blood-red  color,  which  made  his  visage  look 
all  the  more  lean  and  ghastly ;  then  gazed 
he  witli  terrible  severity  on  his  book,  turning 
over  the  leaves  for  some  minutes,  Mother 
Flytrap  looking  on  with  a  fearful  curious- 
ness,  as  dumb  as  a  stone. 

"Mercury  in  the  sixth  house,"  muttered 
the  conjurer  as  if  to  himself. 

"  I  wan-ant  you  that  is  my  house  ;  for 
mine  is  just  the  sixth  in  the  row  as  you  enter 
the  town,"  obser\'ed  she. 

"  Silence,  woman  !"  shouted  Stripes,  au- 
thoritatively, then  presently  added  in  an  un- 
der tone — "  Jupiter  and  Venus  in  conjunc- 
tion, whereof  tlie  afi^inities  in  equihbrio  being 
geometrical  to  their  qualities,  giveth  sign  of 
some  heavy  metal,  of  an  express  white  color, 
and  in  sliapc  of  some  narrowness,  with  a 
concavity  at  the  determination.  Ha  !  what 
meaneth  this  ! — Diana  under  a  cloud " 

"  That's  her  an'  it  please  you  !"  said 
Mother  Flytrap,  eagerly  ;  "  she  hath  been 
'  under  a  cloud'  at  sundry  several  times, 
which  will  be  well  known  of  many,  for  she 
is  as  absolute  a " 

"  Peace,  I  tell  thee  !"  bawled  the  conju- 
ror ;  -  wouldst  turpify  my  astrologicale  ? 
Prithee  hold  tliy  prate :"  after  which  he 
continued  without  other  interruption  a  deal 
more  of  similar  heathenish  words.  "  My 
art  teiletli  me  these  three  things,"  observed 
he  to  her  at  last,  as  grave  as  any  judge ; 


64 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"to wit — thy  spoon  hath  been  stolen,  an' 
thou  hast  not  mislaid  it  in  some  secret  place  ; 
— provided  a  thief  hath  got  it,  tliere  shall  be 
no  doubt  it  hath  been  stolen ;  and  should  it 
be  found  upon  Marian  Looselish,  beyond  all 
contradicting  she  may  be  suspected  of  the 
theft." 

"  Wonderful !"  cried  the  old  woman,  in  a 
huge  amazement;  "of  all  conjuring  never 
heard  I  of  anything  like  unto  this  !  I  would 
have  sworn  it  was  her  before  your  worship 
had  told  me  a  letter  of  her  name  ;  for  I  have 
all  along  suspected  her  and  no  other.  I 
protest  I  am  in  so  great  an  admiration  of 
your  worship's  marvellous  deep  knowledge 
I  scarce  know  what  to  be  at.  Odds  cod- 
lings, what  wonders  the  world  hath  !" 

"  At  thy  ])eril,  speak  another  word  till  I 
tell  thee  !"  exclaimed  the  reputed  conjuror, 
in  a  formidable  solemn  voice,  as  if  desirous 
of  still  more  impressing  his  customer  with 
his  thorough  knowledge  of  the  occult  sci- 
ence :  "  I  charge  thee  make  no  manner  of 
noise,  else  ill  will  befall  thee.  I  would  know 
more  of  this  matter,  and  will  have  my  fami- 
liar to  acquaint  me  with  the  particularities." 
At  this  the  old  dame,  dumb  with  extreme 
fright  and  curiousness,  backed  herself  into 
a  corner  of  the  chamber,  as  Stripes,  waving 
of  his  wand  mysteriously,  and  repeating 
some  unintelligible  jargon,  stalked  round 
and  round  the  table.  All  at  once  they  heard 
a  horrible  strange  sort  of  sound,  like  unto 
the  deep  grunting  of  an  over-fed  hog,  which 
the  conjuror,  in  ignorance  of  its  cause,  fan- 
cied to  be  something  unnatural  coming  to 
punish  him  for  his  vain-glorious  boast  of  in- 
timacy with  a  familiar,  and  straightway 
stopped  his  conjurations  ;  and  Mother  Fly- 
trap, too  frightened  to  speak,  hearing  the 
sounds,  and  observing  the  half-starved  black 
cat  at  this  moment  push  her  way  through 
the  unclosed  door, — her  back  raised  and  her 
eyes  glaring  as  she  caught  sight  of  her  mas- 
ter with  the  uplifted  wand,  supposing  he  was 
about  to  punish  her  for  her  dishonesty, — had 
no  doubt  she  was  a  demon  invoked  by  the 
schoolmaster,  and  thereupon  striking  out  witli 
her  stick  convulsively  before  her,  she  com- 
menced crouching  down  into  the  corner, 
every  time  uttering  of  a  scream  so  piercing- 
it  seemed  as  though  she  were  about  giving 
up  the  ghost. 

Her  outcry  soon  brought  Skinny  Dickon 
into  the  chamber,  who,  spying  of  the  two  in 
such  a  terrible  monstrous  fear,  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  with  his  jaws  gaping  like  a 
hungry  pike,  till  hearing  of  the  strange  un- 
earthly sound,  and  seeing  his  master  had 
been  at  his  conjurations,  a  horrible  suspicion 
seemed  to  come  across  him  of  a  sudden ; 


and  he  dropped  on  his  knees,  as  though  he 
had  been  shot.  Presently,  some  of  the 
.■scholars  came  creeping  towards  the  door,  the 
back  ones  peeping  over  the  forward  ones 
shoulders,  with  aspects  alarmed  and  anxious ; 
and  the  old  woman's  screams  continuing, 
sundry  of  the  neighbors  rushed  in  at  another 
door  by  which  she  had  herself  entered,  mar- 
velling prodigiously  to  hear  such  a  distur- 
bance ;  and  marvelling  the  more,  to  note 
what  they  beheld  at  their  entrance. 

"  In  God's  name,  neighbor,  what  meaneth 
this  strange  scene  ?"  enquired  a  sober 
honest-looking  artisan,  in  his  leathern  apron 
and  cap,  gazing  from  one  to  an  otlier  of  tlie 
group  in  famous  astonishment. 

"  Ya  !"  screamed  Motlier  Flytrap,  again 
crouching  down  in  the  comer,  and  poking 
out  her  stick,  witii  her  eyes  fcced  upon  the 
object  of  her  exceeding  terror,  as  thougji  it 
held  a  spell  over  her. 

"  Mum-mum-mum-mum-Master's  been — 
rer-rer-rer-rer-raising  the  devil  I"  stuttered 
out  Dickon,  as  plain  as  he  could,  for  the 
fright  he  was  in. 

'•  Ya  !"  repeated  the  old  woman,  with  die 
same  look  and  gesture. 

"  He's  there  ?"  muttered  the  trembling 
schoolmaster,  pointing  to  a  closet  whence 
the  sounds  seemed  to  proceed;  whereupon 
there  was  an  instant  backward  movement 
of  his  neighbors,  save  only  the  artizan  ;  and 
the  old  woman  screamed  more  lustily  than 
ever,  for  she  believed  the  cat  was  meant,  as 
having  her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  animal,  she 
had  not  seen  where  tlie  frightened  pedago- 
gue had  pointed. 

"  With  the  Lord's  help,  mayhap  I  will 
unkennel  him,  if  there  he  be,"  observed  tlie 
artisan,  making  a  forward  movement. 

"  Nay,  'o  my  life,  David  Hurdle,  thou 
must  be  mad,  sure  !"  exclaimed  one  ;  and 
others  cried  out  against  his  seeking  of  such 
danger,  and  many  were  for  holding  him,  to 
prevent  his  destruction,  as  they  thought. 

"  Fear  nought,"  said  the  artisan,  break- 
ing from  his  alarmed  neighbors  ;  "  we  are 
in  tiie  Lord's  hands.  He  will  not  deliver 
his  people  into  the  power  of  the  spoiler." 
Then  walking  boldly  up  to  the  closet,  the 
door  of  which  lie  fearlessly  opened,  he  ad- 
ded, in  a  firm  voice,  "  1  ciiarge  thee,  if  tliou 
art  an  unclean  spirit,  depart  from  the  dwell- 
ing of  this  man." 

Tlie  interior  was  too  dark  for  any  there 
to  see  into,  therefore  was  nothing  visible ; 
but  the  terror-struck  peo|)le  noticed  the  in- 
stantaneous stoppage  of  that  smothered 
grunting  which  sounded  so  unearthly  ;  and 
could  plainly  enough  distinguish  a  ruslUng 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


65 


as  of  some  one  moving,  which  again  caused 
an  instant  rush  to  the  door. 

"  I  charge  thee  begone !"  cried  David 
Hurdle,  undauntedly. 

"  What  dost  charge  me  ?"  grumbled  a 
deep  thick  voice  from  the  closet.  "  Prithee, 
keep  it  on  the  score,  and  give  us  'tother  pot. 
Eh,  Ticklebreech  ?" 

"As  I  live  'tis  Sir  Nathaniel !"  cried  se- 
veral voices  at  once,  to  the  wonderful  relief 
of  the  rest ;  and  sure  enough,  Sir  Nathaniel 
it  was,  who,  after  so  absolute  a  carouse  the 
previous  night  with  his  customary  boon 
companions,  his  senses  had  completely  left 
him,  had  returned  home  with  the  school- 
master, without  whose  knowledge  he  had 
thrust  himself  into  the  closet,  where  he  had 
been  snoring  the  whole  morning,  coiled  up 
like  a  monstrous  caterpiller ;  whereby  he 
had  put  so  sudden  a  stop  on  his  friend's 
conjurations,  and  had  nigh  driven  Mother 
Flytrap  out  of  her  five  wits. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  mery  lark,  mesengere  of  the  day 
Saluteth  in  her  song  the  morowe  gray  ; 
Andfirie  Phebus  ryseth  up,  so  bright 
That  all  the  orient  laugheth  at  the  sight : 
And  with  his  stremis  diyetli  in  the  graves, 
The  silver  dropis  hanging  in  the  leves. 

Chaucer. 
For  I  am  servant  of  the  lawe, 
Covetouse  is  myne  owne  felowe. 

Old   Morality. 
Out  on  you  theefles,  bouth  two  ! 
Eieh  man  maye  see  you  be  soe, 

Alby  your  araaye 
Muffled  in  mantles  none  such  I  know, 
I  shall  make  you  lowte  full  lowe, 
'  Or  I  departe  you  free. 

Antichrist. 

Master  Buzzard  sat  at  a  table  eating 
of  a  pasty  made  of  game  birds,  and  ever  and 
anon  flinging  a  bone  to  one  of  the  many 
dogs  looking  wistfully  up  at  him.  He  was 
taking  of  his  morning  repast  in  the  same 
hall  of  his,  which  hath  before  been  des- 
cribed, at  interims  enjoying  frequent  and 
plentiful  draughts  at  a  tankard  tliat  stood 
close  at  his  trencher  ;  and  then  again, 
swearing  lustily  at  such  of  the  dogs  who,  in 
their  impatience  to  have  of  the  delicate 
victual,  mayhap  would  leap  to  his  lap,  or  re- 
mind him  of  their  nearness  by  giving  him  a 
smart  blow  of  the  leg  with  one  of  their  fore- 
paws.  At  a  respectful  distance,  with  his 
hat  on  his  knees,  and  his  stick  beside  it,  sat 
the  shrunk-up  figure  and  parchment  physi- 


ognomy of  Jemmy  Catchpole,  the  town 
lawyer,  seneschal,  balilf,  attorney,  and  stew- 
ard, as  he  was  indifferently  styled. 

"  All  precepts  have  been  served,  an'  it 
please  you,"  observed  Jemmy  Catchpole  ; 
"  we  have  him  in  fee  simple  with  fine  and 
recovery,  but  the  defendant  pleadeth  extreme 
poverty,  and  prayeth  in  aid  that  the  suit  may 
be  stopped  from  and  after  the  determination 
of  the  last  action,  else  shall  lie  be  forced  to 
such  shifts  as  shall  put  your  honor's  hand 
and  seal  to  his  ruin,  and  cut  the  entail  from 
all  remainders  in  perpetuity — in  witness 
whereof  he  hath  but  now  demised,  granted, 
and  to  farm-let  his  desire  to  me  that  I  might 
be  a  feodary  in  this  act  for  such  an  interval- 
lum  as  your  honor  may  please  to  allow." 

"  An  I  wait  another  hour  I'll  be  hanged  !" 
rudely  exclaimed  Master  Buzzard,  thumping 
the  table  with  his  fist  with  such  force  as  to 
startle  some  of  the  hawks.  "  If  he  hath  not 
the  means  of  paying  his  bond,  strip  him  of 
what  he  hath.  What !  Shall  I  lend  my 
money  to  a  paltry  burgess,  and  he  do  me  ill 
offices,  and  then,  when  cometh  time  for 
payment,  shall  such  a  fellow  think  to  get  off 
by  whining  a  dolorous  plaint  concerning  of 
his  poverty  ?  'Slife  !  when  I  let  him,  cut 
me  into  collops  for  my  hounds." 

"  As  your  honor  wills  it,"  replied  the 
lawyer  ;  "  then  will  I,  without  let  or  hin- 
drance, plea  or  demurrer,  make  an  extent 
upon  his  house  and  lands,  immediately  pro- 
vided in  that  case  he  doth  not  give  instant 
quittance  for  his  obligation." 

"  Make  him  as  barren  as  a  rotten  branch," 
cried  the  other,  with  a  frowning  indignant 
look  that  spoke  as  bitterly  as  his  words. 
"  At  one  swoop  bear  off  his  whole  posses- 
sions. By  God's  body,  an'  thou  leavest  him 
as  much  as  wonld  keep  his  beggarly  soul 
for  a  day,  I  will  have  nought  to  do  with  thee 
ever  after." 

"  I  am  mortgaged  to  your  honor's  will," 
observed  his  companion  very  humbly,  as  he 
took  his  hat  and  stick  in  his  hand,  and  rose 
from  his  seat.  Not  long  after  he  had  taken 
himself  out  of  the  hall,  there  entered  Saul, 
booted  and  spurred,  and  soiled  with  dust,  as 
though  he  had  just  come  off  a  journey. 

"  Ha,  Saul,  art  there  !"  cried  his  master, 
his  sullen  features  brightening  upabit  at  the 
sight  of  his  man  ;  "  I  expected  thee  not  so 
soon.     But  how  fareth  my  noble  kinsman  ?" 

"  As  comfortless  as  a  hound  covered  with 
hots,"  replied  Saul,  putting  on  a  grin  at  his 
conceit.  "  Down  Towler  !  Away  Bess  ! 
Back  Ponto  !"  cried  he,  as  sundry  of  the 
dogs  came  leaping  up  to  him,  in  sign  of  his 
having  staid  from  them  some  time.  His 
honorable  lordship  walketh  about  like  a  dis- 


56 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


turbed  spirit  ;  his  face  has  lost  the  humor 
of  smiling,  and  carryeth  the  affectation  of 
melancholy  with  as  much  intentncss  as  a 
lean  raven.  He  crosseth  his  arms,  and 
paceth  his  chamber,  and  sigheth  heavilv, 
and  seemeth  to  have  parted  with  all  enjoy- 
ment in  this  world  ;  were  he  papist  now,  I 
doubt  not  he  would  turn  monk  presently." 

"  'Tis  well,"  observed  Master  Buzzard, 
taking  to  his  meal  as  if  with  a  fresh  appe- 
tite, at  hearing  such  intelligence  ;  "  I  am 
infinitely  glad  matters  go  on  there  so  bravely. 
Here,  assay  some  of  this  pasty.  Perchance, 
thou  art  a  hungered  after  thy  ride."  Saul 
waited  not  for  a  second  bidding,  but  with  the 
familiarity  of  a  long-tolerated  villain,  drew 
to  the  table,  and  helped  himself  without 
stint. 

"  What  dost  think,  Saul  ?"  inquired  his 
master,  putting  down  his  knife,  and  looking 
with  a  peculiar  knowingness  at  his  man, 
after  they  had  been  silently  discussing  the 
pasty  for  some  few  minutes. 

"  I'faith,  I  know  not,  master,"  replied  the 
other,  raising  his  eyes  from  his  trencher. 

"  I  have  got  that  lewd  rascal  and  poor 
knave  in  my  toil  at  last,"  said  Master  buz- 
zard. 

"  What,  John  Shakspoare  ?"  asked  his 
companion,  as  though  in  a  sort  of  pleased 
surprise. 

"  No  other,"'  answered  his  master,  evi- 
dently with  a  like  devilish  satisfaction. 
'•  He  shall  presently  be  turned  upon  this 
world  as  bare  as  a  callow  owlet.  I  have 
taken  care  he  shall  be  stripped  of  all  his  sub- 
stance, even  to  his  Sunday  jerkin,  and  sent 
adrift  as  complete  a  beggar  as  overlived." 

"  O'  my  lile,  excellent  !"  exclaimed  his 
man,  chafing  of  his  hands  as  if  in  great 
glee ;  "  body  o'  me,  I  have  not  heard  such 
pleasant  news  this  many  a  day.  He  will 
never  fine  me  forty  shillings  again  for  brea- 
king a  man's  head,  I'll  warrant,  or  coop  me 
a  whole  da\'  in  the  cage,  on  suspicion  of 
being  over  civil  to  a  comely  woman,  as  his 
high  balifl'ship  hath  done.  Well  an'  I  make 
not  good  sport  of  this,  count  my  liver  as 
while  as  a  boiled  chicken.  But  here's  a 
goodly  stock  of  patience  to  him,  that  he  may 
bear  this  pititiil  change  of  fortune  as  he 
best  may  !"  And  so  saying,  he  lifted  the 
tankard  to  his  mouth,  and  took  a  hearty 
draught  of  it. 

"  lie  hath  no  John  a  Combe  now  to  help 
him  at  his  need,"  added  Master  Buzzard. 
"  Methinks  too  I  have  carved  out  such  work 
for  that  wiglit  as  will  keep  him  like  a  rat  to 
his  hole:  for  I  have  at  last  taken  such  ven- 
geance as  will  hurt  him  more  than  ever  our 


rapiers  could,  had  we  succeeded  as  I  at  firrt 
wished." 

"  Truly,  he  showed  himself  a  very  devil 
at  his  weapon,"  observed  the  other  ;  "  and 
handled  me  so  in  the  lane — a  murrain  on 
him  !  I  shall  bear  on  my  body  the  marks  of 
his  handwriting  to  my  life's  end  :  therefore, 
am  I  all  the  more  glad  you  have  given  him 
his  deserts." 

"  Now  truss  me  with  all  speed,"  said  his 
master,  at  the  finishing  of  his  repast,  "  for 
I  am  bound  to  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's,  and  must 
needs  appear  becomingly  before  his  wor- 
ship." 

"  Ay,  marry,"  replied  Saul,  trussing  his 
master's  points.  Shortly  after  which  Master 
Buzzard  mounted  his  horse,  which  had  been 
got  ready  for  him  at  the  gate,  and  rode  ofT 
in  the  direction  of  Fulbroke  Park. 

It  was  a  fresh  morning  at  the  latter  end 
of  April,  and  great  rains  had  fallen  for  some 
time,  the  young  foliage  was  marked  willi 
such  transparent  green  as  was  truly  deli- 
cate to  see — the  hedges  being  fairly  clothed 
all  in  their  new  liveries,  save  here  and  there 
a  backward  hawthorn,  or  a  stump  of  an  old 
oak  the  last  frosts  had  taken  a  stout  hold  of, 
showed  its  unsightly  bare  branches.  On  the 
banks  there  was  no  lack  of  verdure,  sjirink- 
led  in  famous  plentifulness  with  groups  of 
primroses,  cuckoo  flowers,  snap-jacks,  dai- 
sies, cowslips,  violets,  and  other  sweet  har- 
bingers of  the  summer  season.  The  small 
birds  were  making  a  brave  chirruping  in 
and  out  of  the  hedges — sparrows,  linnets, 
finches,  and  tits,  out  of  all  number — anon, 
the  traveler  would  disturb  a  blackbird  or 
thrush  feeding,  who  would  fly  off  with  some 
noise — close  over  the  adjoining  field  of  rye, 
high-soaring,  was  seen  the  lark,  pouring 
from  her  throat  such  a  gush  of  thrilling 
music  as  nought  else  in  nature  hath  compa- 
rison with  ;  at  openings  in  the  hedge  might 
be  ob.-served  glimpses  of  the  adjoining  coun- 
try, which  looked  very  prettily — here,  a  pas- 
ture with  numberless  sheep  on  it  all  cleanly 
cropped  from  the  late  shearing,  among  which 
the  young  lambs  were  beheld  making  excel- 
lent sport  with  each  other,  or  running  with 
an  innocent  ))laintivo  "  ba"  to  tlie  motlier 
ewe,  whose  deeper  voice  over  and  anon  came 
in  witii  a  pleasant  harmony — there,  a  field 
partly  ])loughed  by  a  team  of  oxen,  followed 
by  a  choice  company  of  rooks,  who  came  to 
make  ])rey  of  the  worms  that  were  turned  up 
in  the  fiurows — and  not  a  stone's  throw  from 
them  was  a  man  scattering  of  seed  in  tlie 
newly  raised  soil — whilst  close  at  hand  were 
sundry  old  people  busily  engiiged  at  weeding 
a  coming  crop.  Other  fields,  of  various  dif- 
ferent tints,  stretched  tlieuiselves  out  far  and 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


57 


wide,  till  nought  could  be  seen  but  the  hedge 
rows ;  and  the  far  off  hills  and  woods,  the 
greenness  whereof  seemed  to  vanish  in  the 
distance  to  a  deep  dark  blue. 

Nothing  of  all  this  brave  sight  was  noticed 
by  Master  Buzzard,  who  rode  on  his  horse 
with  a  tercel  on  his  wrist,  and  a  brach-hound 
at  his  iiorse's  heels,  careless  of  all  things  in 
nature  save  only  his  own  selfish  schemings 
and  villanous  plottings  against  the  happiness 
of  otiiers.  He  was  one  for  whom  the  beau- 
ties around  him  had  no  attractions  at  any 
time,  unless,  peradventure,  it  afforded  him 
good  sport  in  hawking  or  in  such  other  pas- 
times as  he  took  deliglit;  in  fact,  from  a  rio- 
tous, headstrong  youth,  he  had  grown  to  be  a 
man  void  of  all  principle,  seeking  his  own 
pleasures,  heedless  of  whatsoever  might  be 
in  their  way  ;  and  never  hesitating  to  stoop 
to  any  villainy  that  promised  employment  to 
his  bad  passions,  and  advantage  to  himself. 
Such  a  one  nature  might  look  in  the  face, 
smiling  in  all  her  most  exquisite  comeliness, 
and  he  would  take  of  her  no  more  heed  than 
would  he  the  squalid  lineaments  of  a  beggar's 
callet.  Indeed,  the  numberless  moving  graces 
of  our  inestimable  kind  mother,  can  only  be 
sufficiently  appreciated  by  those  whose  eye- 
sight is  free  from  sensual  and  selfish  films, 
and  whose  deep  hearted  love  helpeth  their 
vision  more  admirably  than  can  any  glasses, 
however  magnifying  they  may  be. 

Master  Buzzard  proceeded  on  his  journey 
at  a  briskish  amble,  seemingly  by  the  con- 
ti'action  of  his  brows,  and  unpieasing  gravity 
of  his  aspect,  to  be  meditating  somewhat ;  but 
of  what  he  was  thinking  I  care  not  to  tell ;  for 
it  is  a  standing  truth,  a  bad  man's  thoughts 
will  do  good  to  none.  Sometimes  he  would 
start  from  his  reflections  to  whistle  to  his 
hound,  should  the  dog  seem  inclined  to  wan- 
der away  upon  the  t'resh  trail  of  coneys  or 
hares  ;  and  then  swear  a  lot  of  terrible  oaths 
when  she  returned  to  his  side  ;  or  he  would 
walk  his  horse,  to  talk  and  trifle  with  his 
hawk  ;  and  then,  tired  of  that,  away  he  would 
bound  again,  througli  the  deep  lanes,  and  over 
the  fields,  to  Charlcote,  with  his  dog  some 
little  way  behind,  carrying  of  her  nose  close 
to  the  ground,  or  running  on  before  with  a 
sharp  quick  bark,  constantly  stopping  and 
twirling  of  her  head  around  to  look  back  at 
her  master  ;  and  away  again,  as  though  it 
was  fine  sport  to  her  to  be  so  early  a  roving. 
Thus  they  went  till  they  came  to  a  white 
gate,  at  the  which  Master  Buzzard  was 
forced  to  dismount  to  open  it,  and  tlien  rode 
on  again  through  a  pasture  marked  by  sweep- 
ing undulations,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
magnificent  oaks  and  beeches,  through  which 
the  sunshine  came  in  glances,  in  a  manner 


as  if  desirous  of  having  the  best  aspects  ot 
this  sylvan  scene. 

Here  the  palfrey  ambled  his  prettiest  paces, 
for  the  close  herbage  was  as  velvet  to  his 
hoofs,  and  he  stretched  out  his  neck,  and 
shook  his  mane,  and  pawed  the  ground  as  he 
went,  in  a  marvellous  fine  fasliion  :  but  ail  at 
once  he  stopped  of  a  sudden,  for  right  across 
his  path,  a  little  in  advance  of  him,  there 
rushed  a  numerous  troop  of  deer,  and  Master 
Buzzard  had  a  great  to  do  in  shouting  and 
whistling  to  call  back  his  brach-hound,  who 
at  the  first  glance  of  them  was  for  giving 
chase  at  the  top  of  her  speed.  It  was  a 
famous  sight  to  see  them  bounding  across 
the  wide  valley,  and  then  up  the  next  accliv- 
ity, where  they  stopped, — perchance  to  note 
if  they  were  pursued — the  young  fawns 
using  their  slender  legs  with  exceeding  swift- 
ness ;  and  amongst  the  rest  might  be  seen  a 
delicate  white  doe,  made  all  the  more  mani- 
fest by  the  sleek  backs  of  her  dappled  com- 
pany. Farther  on  more  of  these  were  met 
with,  and,  if  at  any  distance,  the  bucks  would 
not  stir  ;  but  with  antlers  erect,  they  would 
get  together  and  examine  the  strangers  with 
a  marvellous  bold  front — anon  a  partridge 
would  rise  before  the  horse  with  a  startling 
whirr  ;  and  other  signs  of  a  like  nature  met 
them  as  they  went,  which  proved  plain 
enough  that  they  were  in  some  goodly  park 
or  another.  Peradventure,  whilst  Master 
Buzzard  is  making  his  way  to  Charlcote, 
the  courteous  reader  will  be  right  glad  to  be 
rid  of  his  villanous  company. 

At  this  time  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  his 
dame  were  taking  a  morning's  walk  in  their 
garden  and  orchards — mayhap  to  see  how 
looked  the  trees  for  fruit,  and  the  ground  for 
vegetables  and  flowers.  These  two  were 
both  of  some  age,  that  is  to  say,  neither  were 
short  of  fifty.  The  knight  was  somewhat 
older,  of  a  middle  size  as  regards  length,  yet 
his  limbs  were  slim,  and  waist  no  great  mat- 
ter. His  countenance  was  of  the  simple 
sort,  yet  merry  withal,  for  he  affected  a  jest 
at  times,  and  never  failed  to  laugh  at  it  the 
heartiest  of  any  ;  but  his  constant  affecta- 
tion was  of  boasting  what  wild  pranks  he  had 
done  in  his  youth  for  all  he  was  now  a  jus- 
tice of  peace  ;  nevertheless  when  any  offence 
was  put  upon  him,  he  would  take  uj)on  him- 
self to  be  in  as  monstrous  a  rage  as  the 
greatest  man  in  the  shire.  He  wore  a  high- 
crowned  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  and  moved 
his  head  with  a  jaunty  air,  humming  of  a 
song  he  had  learned  when  at  college  ;  and  a 
short  ruff'  surrounded  his  peaked  grey  beard. 
He  wore  a  plum-colored  doublet,  with  such 
boad  stuffed  breeches  to  his  hose  as  had  been 
I  lately  in  fashion,  and  carried  his  rapier  as 


58 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


daintily  as  any  young  jrallant.  As  for  liis  i 
dame,  she  kept  at  his  side  with  a  dijrnity,  as  i 
she  imagined,  becoming  of  her  station  ;  for  I 
as  she  i'ancied  a  justice  of  peace  to  be  nigh  j 
upon  the  most  worsiiipful  of  all  offices,  and  i 
her  husl)and,  Sir  Thoma,s,  to  be  the  most  | 
famous  justice  that  ever  hved,  anything  in 
her  behavior  that  miglit  savor  of  levity  she 
would  have  nought  to  do  with — always  ex- 
cepting she  would  laugh  a  little  at  her  hus- 
band's jests,  as  she  believed  in  all  obedience 
she  was  bound,  though  she  never  failed  to 
cry  out  "  lie — fie"  as  she  did  it,  when  they 
smacked  of  any  naughtiness.  In  short,  she 
was  a  simple  honest-hearted  creature  as  any 
that  lived,  ever  ready  to  make  up  with  kind- 
ness what  she  wanted  in  sense.  She  was 
dressed  in  an  excellent  stilF  brocade,  with  a 
long  stomacher  and  a  notable  ruff,  plaited 
and  set  out  in  the  best  fashion,  and  wore  high- 
heeled  shoes,  which  gave  her  walk  a  gravity 
she  coulil  not  have  otherwise  attained  ;  and 
had  her  own  hair  partly  concealed  under  a 
French  hood. 

It  may  be  remembered  that  it  was  this  very 
lady  of  whom  Master  Buzzard  spoke  so  un- 
civilly at  William  Shakspcare's  christen- 
ing, touching  a  young  child  she  liad  found 
in  her  walks  abandoned  of  its  parents,  and 
had  resolved  to  bring  up  tenderly  ;  but  in 
truth,  all  he  said  was  a  most  lewd  libel,  as  I 
doubt  not  will  readily  be  believed  of  him,  for 
she  was  too  simple  a  woman  to  do  anything 
unlawful,  and  the  child  was  a  true  foundling, 
to  whom  she  hud  shown  from  the  first  a  very 
womanly  charity  and  aftection.  Her  greatest 
faults  were  her  unreasonable  partialities, 
which  blinded  her  completely.  She  could 
see  no  wrong  in  ought  that  was  done  by  her 
husband.  Sir  Thomas,  who  was  not  altoge- 
ther blameless, — or  her  only  son,  a  boy  of  at 
least  tilteen  years,  and  a  verj^  tyrant  to  the 
gentle  Mabel,  now  grown  to  be  a  child  of 
exquisite  graces  of  disposition,  and  his  junior 
by  some  five  or  six  years. 

It  h;ith  already  been  said  that  the  knight 
and  his  dame  were  taking  of  a  morning's 
walk  together ;  but  some  way  behind  these 
was  seen  a  fair  girl,  whose  clustering  light 
ringlets  were  caught  up  by  every  breeze  that 
blew,  setting  off  as  admirable  a  mild,  sweet 
countenance  as  the  most  innocent  age  of 
childhood  ever  exhibited.  Behind  her  was  a 
lubberly  boy,  dressed  very  daintily  in  doublet 
and  hose  like  a  young  gentleman  ;  and  he 
was  amusing  himself  by  ])icking  up  small 
stones  and  flinging  them  at  her,  many  of 
which  hit  her  sore  thum|)s ;  yet  the  only 
sign  she  shosved  of  her  disliki!  of  such  inici- 
vil  trc^atuient,  was  to  beg  he  would  not  hurt 
her  60  niucli.     These  two  were  the  poor 


foundling  and  the  son  of  her  benefactress — 
and  this  was  a  sample  of  the  sort  of  treat- 
ment she  had  of  him  whenever  he  could  get 
her  away  from  the  observation  of  those  likely 
to  check  his  rudeness  ;  for  he  knew  of  old 
she  w^ould  never  complain  of  him,  let  his 
usage  of  her  l)e  ever  so  bad,  and  therefore 
he  might  continue  it,  as  he  tliought,  with  per- 
fect impimity. 

"  Pray  you,  sweet  Master  Thomas,  hit  me 
not  so  hard  !''  exclaimed  the  pretty  Mabel, 
in  such  winning  accents  as  one  might  have 
thought  would  have  subdued  a  savage,  as 
she  strove  unavailingly  to  save  herself  from 
the  hard  missiles  with  which  she  was  pelted 
by  putting  up  her  little  hands,  and  shrinking 
fearfully  every  time  a  stone  was  thrown. 

"  Tut,  how  can  I  hurt  thee,  thou  little 
fool  ?"  replied  young  Lucy,  desisting  not  a 
moment  from  his  unmannerly  behavior. 

"  Indeed,  you  do  exceedingly,  else  would 
I  say  nouglit  of  the  matter,"  added  she. 

"  Then  thou  shouldst  have  the  wit  to  avoid 
my  aim,"  said  the  boy  with  a  rude  laugh. — 
"  But  thou  makcst  brave  sport,  Mabel.  O' 
my  life,  I  should  like  to  have  tiiee  fixed  to  a 
stake  as  cocks  are  at  a  shrovetide,  I  warrant 
I'd  give  thee  famous  knocks." 

"  I  would  do  you  no  such  unkindness, 
believe  me,"  answ'ered  his  fair  companion. 
"  Nor  would  I  wish  to  hurt  any  that  live." 

'•  The  more  fool  thou,"  exclaimed  her  tor- 
mentor. 

"  I  marvel  you  should  use  me  so  uncivil- 
ly," continued  the  poor  girl,  smarting  with 
the  pain  from  a  fresh  blow,  "  I  am  sure  I 
have  done  nought  that  should  give  you  any 
displeasure,  and  do  all  you  require  me  at  a 
moment's  bidding,  even  though  it  may  have 
in  it  a  great  distastefulness." 

"Marry,  what  infinite  goodness!"  cried 
the  boy  in  a  jeering  manner.  '•  Why,  of 
what  use  art,  if  not  to  afford  me  some  sport 
for  the  lack  of  better?  Dost  know  the  dif- 
ference betwixt  a  good-for-nothing,  beggarly 
brat  and  a  young  gentleman  of  worshij)  ? — 
and  what  so  fit,  I  prithee,  as  that  the  one 
should  be  the  pastime  of  the  other  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  it  should  be  in  some 
other  fashion,  an'  it  please  you,"  observed 
Mabel  very  humbly.  "  I  will  roll  the  ball 
that  you  should  strike  it,  and  then  to  my  ut- 
most speed  to  bring  it  back  to  you  again — I 
will  be  your  horse,  your  spaniel,  your  deer  ; 
nay,  aught  in  this  world  you  most  approve 
of,  and  do  all  that  in  me  lies  to  pleasure  you, 
so  that  you  give  me  no  more  cruel  blows 
with  those  uncivil  stones." 

"  "Pis  my  humor,  I  tell  thee,"  sharply  re- 
plied the  petty  tyrant.  '•  And  why  should  I 
be  balked  in  my  Jiumor  by  bo  mean  a  per- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


69 


son  ?  Thou  art  ever  a  crying  out  about 
thy  hurts,  forsooth  ;  and  1  doubt  not  at  all 
tliou  art  no  more  hurt  than  am  T." 

"  Nay,  and  indeed,  sweet  Master  Tho- 
mas  — " 

"Hold thy  prate  !"  exclaimed  he,  picking 
up  another  missile,  somewhat  larger  in  size 
than  what  he  had  previously  thrown,  which 
he  caught  hold  of  because  he  would  not 
wait  to  seek  any  smaller.  "  See,  I  have  got 
me  a  stone  of  some  bigness,  and  if  thou  art 
not  nimble,  'tis  like  thy  crown  will  stand 
some  chance  of  being  cracked."  The  poor 
child  cowed  down  as  she  saw  him  fling  ;  but 
the  blow  struck  hard,  for  a  slight  scream  es- 
caped her  involimtarily,  as  she  hastily  put  up 
her  hands  to  her  head. 

"  Hang  thee,  why  didst  thou  not  take  heed 
as  I  told  thee  !"  cried  the  unfeeling  boy, 
searching  about  as  if  for  another  stone ;  but 
it  so  happened  that  the  cry  of  Mabel  was 
heard  by  his  parents,  who  turned  back  to  see 
what  caused  it.  The  poor  foundling  was 
standing  in  exactly  the  same  position  as  when 
she  was  struck. 

"  Ha  !  what  aileth  thee,  Mabel  ?"  shouted 
Sir  Thomas,  as  he  approached  her.  "  Hast 
been  stung  by  a  bee  ?  Well,  'tis  but  a  small 
matter.  But  never  knew  I  a  woman  yet  that 
could  not  cry  out  lustily  at  trifles  ;  neverthe- 
less, received  she  any  great  damage  that 
need  not  be  told,  she  had  the  wit  to  hold  her 
tongue,  I  warrant  you." 

"  Fie,  fie  !"'  exclaimed  the  dame,  as  usual, 
joining  in  the  knight's  laugh ;  and  then  re- 
suming her  customary  dignity  swept  forward 
to  see  if  there  was  anything  amiss. 

"  Thou  shouldst  not  cry  out,  child,  upon 
slight  causes,"  added  she,  as  she  came  close 
to  the  poor  foundling.  "  Bees  have  stings,  and 
as  is  exceeding  natural  they  will  use  them 
when  provoked  to  it,  and  perchance  thou 
shalt  be  forced  to  bear  the  smart  ;  but 
come  thou  with  me,  I  have  in  my  closet  the 

sovereignest  remedy .   Alack,  what  a 

sight  is  this  !"  cried  the  old  lady  in  some 
amazement  and  alarm,  as,  in  taking  the 
child's  arm,  she  noticed  blood  trickling 
tlirough  her  fingers,  and  over  her  waving 
ringlets  down  to  her  back. 

"  O'  my  life,  dame,  methinks  she  hath 
suflicient  cause  for  her  crying,"  observed 
the  knight.  "But  how  came  this  about? 
Dost  know  aught  of  the  matter,  son  Tom  ?" 
inquired  he,  as  the  boy  came  up  to  the  spot. 

"  'Troth,  father,  I  was  flinging  at  a  bird, 
and  mayhap  struck  her  by  chance,"  said  his 
son,  as  he  noticed  the  mischief  he  had  done. 

"Plague  on't,  why  dost  not  take  more 
heed  ■?"  exclaimed  his  father. 

"  I  am  not  much  hurt,  I  thank  you,''  said 


Mabel,  but  so  faintly  as  proved  she  was  nigh 
upon  swooning  ;  and,  indeed,  the  blow  had 
been  so  sharp  it  had  stunned  her  for  a  time. 
"  And  Master  Thomas  meant  not  it  should 
strike  me." 

"  Thou  shouldst  not  have  got  in  his  way, 
child  !"  observed  Dame  Lucy,  very  gravely. 
"  But  come  with  me — this  wound  must  be 
looked  to  straight."  And  so  saying,  she  led 
the  fair  child  along  to  the  housed  making 
sage  remarks  all  the  way  of  the  properness 
of  little  girls  keeping  away  from  places 
where  any  stones  were  being  thrown. 

"  I  marvel  thou  shouldst  be  so  awkward, 
son  Tom,"  said  the  knight,  as  he  followed 
slowly  behind  the  other  two.  "  Now,  when 
I  was  of  thy  age,  none  could  match  me  at 
flinging  at  a  mark.  Many's  the  cock-spar- 
row I  have  knocked  oft'  his  perch  ;  nay,  I 
have  been  so  quick  of  eye  as  more  than 
once,  taking  aim  at  a  running  leveret  with 
a  stone  of  less  than  an  ounce  weight,  I 
have  hit  him  between  the  ears,  and  tumbled 
him  over  as  though  he  had  been  shot." 

Thus  this  unmannerly  boy  escaped  the 
punishment  he  deserved  for  his  heartless 
mischief,  and  thus  the  four  returned  to  the 
house,  the  dame  intent  upon  dressing  the 
child's  wound,  for  she  was  famous  in  the 
knowledge  of  simples,  and  in  small  surgery, 
as  all  good  huswives  should  be  ;  and  the 
knight  rehearsing  to  his  son  what  marvel- 
lous feats  he  had  done  in  his  boyhood  with 
the  flinging  of  stones.  Close  upon  the  en- 
trance they  were  met  by  a  serving  man,  an- 
nouncing the  arrival  of  Master  Buzzard, 
come  to  see  his  worship  on  business. 

"  How  fare  you.  Master  Buzzard — how 
fare  you,"  cried  Sir  Thomas,  welcoming  his 
visitor  in  the  old  hall,  where  he  transacted 
justice  business.  "  I  must  have  your  com- 
pany to  dinner,  Master  Buzzard,  when  my 
dame  shall  do  you  all  proper  courtesies." 
Then,  unheeding  aught  he  had  to  say  on 
the  matter,  the  old  knight  gave  instant  or- 
ders that  the  horse  of  his  guest  should  be 
well  tended,  and  preparations  made  for  as 
famous  a  dinner  as  the  cook  could  provide. 
"  Ha  !  hast  got  a  falcon  ?"  continued  he.  "  I 
doubt  not  'tis  a  brave  bird  by  the  look  of  it, 
Master  Buzzard.  Indeed,  in  my  time,  I  have 
been  as  cunning  in  falconry  as  the  best  man 
living.  I  remember  me  I  had  a  hawk  of  my 
own  training  that  was  the  admiration  of  all 
the  country,  and  lords  and  bishops  and  great 
courtiers  came  to  beg  that  bird  of  me,  but  I 
would  part  with  her  on  no  account ;  she 
went  at  her  quarry  as  no  bird  ever  did — and 
all  of  my  own  training.  And  how  fareth 
your  noble  kinsman  ?" 

"  Bravely,  I  thank  you,  Sir  Thomas,"  re- 


60 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE, 


Elied  Master  Buzzard  courteously  ;  and  then 
olding  out  the  bird,  added,  "  this  hawk  is 
accounted  one  of  ten  thousand,  as  I  doubt 
not  you  shall  find  her  on  trial,  so  I  pray  you 
accept  of  her,  Hir  Thomas,  for  I  have  "had 
her  trained  so  that  she  should  be  worthy  of 
belonging  to  so  excellent  fine  a  judge." 

"  Count  me  your  debtor.  Master  Buzzard," 
said  the  knight,  taking  the  gift  very  readily. 
"  I  shall  be  proud  to  do  you  any  good  ser- 
vice, believe  me.  By  the  mass,  'tis  a  brave 
bird  !  And  so  your  noble  kinsman  is  well," 
continued  he,  as  they  sat  together  under  a 
raised  dais  at  the  top  of  the  hall.  "  I  wonder 
if  he  hath  forgot  his  old  acquaintance,  Tho- 
mas Lucy — vahant  Thomas  Lucy,  as  he  was 
wont  to  call  me,  because  once  I  got  my  head 
broke  by  a  tinker  for  kissing  of  his  wife.  I  re- 
member me  now,  his  good  lordship  laughed 
when  the  fellow  offiered  to  solder  it  for  me  for 
a  groat,  and  put  his  irons  in  the  fire  for  tlie 
purpose.     That  was  a  good  jest  i'  faith." 

"  My  lord  often  speaketh  kindly  of  you, 
Sir  Thomas,' '  replied  his  guest,  though  he 
had  never  heard  his  kinsman  mention  the 
knight's  name. 

"  O'  my  heart,  doth  he  now  ?"  exclaimed 
Sir  Thomas  delightedly.  "  Well,  we  have 
been  sad  boys  together  that's  a  sure  thing — 
such  coney-catchers — such  roysterers — such 
lads  of  metal  were  not  to  be  found  in  all  Ox- 
ford. We  kept  the  college  in  a  roar,  that  did 
we,  with  our  tricks  ;  and  if  any  of  the  citi- 
zens so  much  as  said  us  nay,  we  would  out 
with  our  toasting-irons  and  show  them  how 
famously  we  could  pass  the  montant,  the 
punto,  the  reverse,  and  other  signs  of  our 
cunning  in  fence,  till  they  were  glad  enough 
to  take  to  their  heels  with  whole  skins.  We 
had  not  our  match  at  the  duello,  I  promise 
you,  and  my  lord  was  as  choice  a  man  at  his 
weaix)n  as  might  be  met  witii  in  those  days. 
As  for  me,  he  would  say  I  deserved  to  be 
fencer  to  the  Czar  of  iluscovy,  I  was  so 
quick  at  it,  and  that  my  niml)leness  of  motion 
made  me  as  ditticult  to  bi;  hit  us  a  flea  with  a 
cannon  ball ;  odds  mv  life,  tiiat  was  wittily 
said." 

'•  In  truth,  a  notable  jest,"  said  his  guest, 
joining  in  the  justice's  laugh. 

"  And  so  he  wears  well,  doth  he,  Master 
Buzzard  ?"  inquired  tiie  knight.  "  I'm  glad 
on't — heartily  glad  on't — for  he  was  a  true, 
jovial  spirit  as  ever  I  have  met  with,  and  1 
have  known  some  mad  fellows  in  my  time,  1 
warrant  you.  'Trotli,  you  would  marvel  fa- 
mously to  hear  of  what  terrible,  wild  doings 
I  have  beon  a  party  to  in  my  younger  d;iys 
— a  March  hare  was  not  so  mud  as  was  1 — 
some  called  mu  Hector  of  Greece,  because 
of  my  valor — others  the  King  of  tlie  fcJwing- 


bucklers,  I  was  so  ready  to  be  a  leader  to  the 
rest  in  any  mischief.  I  was  the  terror  of  all 
the  drawers  round  about,  I  would  beat  them 
so  readily  ;  and  the  constables  of  the  watch 
have  oft  been  heard  to  say  they  would  as  lief 
meddle  with  a  savage  bear  as  lay  a  hand  on 
me  when  I  was  in  any  of  my  wild  humors. 
That  is  a  fair  hound  of  yours,"  continued 
he,  all  at  once  noticing  the  dog  his  guest  had 
brought  with  him.  "  There  are  few  so  apt 
as  am  I  in  a  proper'knowledge  of  dogs.  I 
can  tell  a  good  one  on  the  instant.  Indeed, 
I  have  been  accounted  as  exquisite  a  judge 
in  the  breeding  and  breaking  of  them  as  could 
be  found  in  the  county  ;  and  I  have  had  in 
my  time  such  dogs  as  could  not  be  seen 
elsewhere.  A  fallow  greyhound  had  I  of  a 
most  choice  breed  that  beat  all  she  run 
against.  O'  my  life,  I  have  won  such  wages 
on  that  dog's  head  as  are  clean  incredible. 
But  your's  is  a  fair  hound,  Master  Buzzard, 
take  my  word  for't." 

"'Tis  at  your ..  sen-ice,  Sir  Thomas — I 
brought  her  here  for  no  other  intent,"  replied 
the  other. 

"  Nay,  I  cannot  rob  you  of  so  fair  a  hound, 
Master  Buzzard,"  said  the  justice,  patting 
and  commending  the  dog  as  she  crouched  at 
her  master's  feet. 

"  You  will  do  me  WTong  in  denying  me 
such  a  favor.  Sir  Thomas — so  I  pray  you  take 
her,"  answered  his  guest. 

"  Nay,  I  should  be  loth  to  do  any  man 
wrong !"  exclaimed  the  knight  with  great 
earnestness.  "  Methinks  a  justice  of  peace 
should  be  no  wrong-doer — so  I  will  e'en  ac- 
cept of  your  hound,  and  thank  you  very 
heartily.  Is  there  aught  in  which  my  poor 
ability  may  do  you  a  service.  Master  Buz- 
zard ?" 

"  There  is  a  matter  I  have  come  upon,  to 
the  which  I  should  like  to  have  your  wor- 
ship's countenance,"  began  his  companion 
with  a  famous  hypocritical  serious  face. 

"  Count  upon  it.  Master  Buzzard  !"  cried 
the  justice.  "  Believe  me,  I  xCould  stniin 
a  i)oint  for  you  with  great  willingness,  that 
would  I,  as  1  will  show  at  any  time  there  is 
good  warrant  for  it." 

"  I  am  much  bound  to  you.  Sir  Thomas," 
replied  the  other  ;  "  then  this  is  it.  There  is 
one  John  Sliakspeure " 

"What,  he  of  Stratford?"  inquired  the 
knight  quickly.  "  A  man  of  fair,  round  face, 
who  married  Arden's  daughter.  1  have  heard 
him  wi'U  spoken  of  by  diviTS  of  the  burgesses 
as  passing  honest,  and,  at  your  instig-.ition, 
Master  Buzzard,  I  will  countenance  him 
against  any  man."' 

"  You  have  been  hugely  deceived  in  Ijim, 
Sir  Thomas,"  obscn'eci  his  guest. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


61 


"  Marry,  would  he  seek  to  deceive  a  justice 
of  peace  !"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  What 
monstrous  villainy  !" 

"  I  have  heard  him  speak  most  abominable 
slander  of  your  worship,"  continued  Master 
Buzzard. 

"  Oh,^the  horrid  caitiff!"  cried  the  offend- 
ed justice.  "  Nay,  but  'tis  actionable.  Mas- 
ter Buzzard  ;  and  I  will  have  him  cast  in 
swinging  damages.  O'  my  life,  never  heard 
I  so  infamous  a  thing  !  I  will  straightway 
issue  my  warrant  for  his  apprehension.  I 
will  teach  him  to  slander  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
knight  o'  the  shire  and  justice  o'  the  peace,  I 
warrant  you  !  'Tis  not  fit  such  villains 
should  live  ;  and  methinks  'twould  be  ex- 
ceeding proper  in  tlie  law  could  so  heinous 
an  offence  be  brought  in  hanging." 

"  As  I  live,  I  am  of  your  worship's  opini- 
on !"  said  his  guest.  "  But  he  is  a  very  pes- 
tilent knave,  this  John  Sliakspeare,  and  one 
of  no  manner  of  honesty  whatever,  as  I  can 
presently  prove  ;  for  sometime  since,  at  his 
urgent  pressing,  believing  him  to  be  such 
creditable  person  as  your  worship  thought,  I 
lent  him  a  hundred  crowns  on  his  bond,  the 
which  he  hath  not  paid  to  this  day,  putting 
me  off  with  all  sorts  of  paltry  excuses  con- 
cerning of  what  losses  he  had  had  ;  but 
knowing,  by  certain  intelligence,  he  was 
merely  striving  to  get  off  payment,  I  have 
instructed  Master  Catchpole  to  proceed 
against  him  and  seize  wliat  he  hath  for  the 
payment  of  my  just  debt." 

'•  I  warrant  you,"  observed  the  knight, 
"  never  heard  I  of  such  thorough  dishonesty. 
What,  borrow  a  hundred  crowns  at  his  need, 
and  at  a  proper  time  be  not  able  to  pay  it 
back  !     O'  my  life,  'tis  clean  villainy  !" 

"  Perchance  I  should  not  have  been  so 
rigorous  with  him,  had  I  not  heard  him  give 
your  worship  such  ill  words,"  added  Master 
Buzzard  ;  "  for  I  care  not  so  much  for  losing 
of  such  a  sum  ;  but  I  could  not  allow  of  one 
who  slandered  so  noble  a  gentleman  going 
unpunished." 

"  By'r  lady,  Master  Buzzard,  I  am  greatly 
beholden  to  you  !"  exclaimed  the  justice ; 
"  but  I  will  trounce  him  famously — ay,  that 
will  I ! — and  keep  his  unruly  tongue  from  all 
such  lewd  behavior  forever  after." 

"  Nay,  if  it  please  you,  Sir  Thomas,  I 
would  he  should  not  be  attacked  in  tliis 
matter,"  said  Master  Buzzard.  The  burg- 
esses might  take  it  ill  of  me,  he  being  one 
of  the  corporation,  and  of  some  influence 
amongst  them,  were  I  to  seem  to  press  him 
too  hard.  So  I  should  take  it  kindly  if  you 
would  make  no  stir  in  it ;  but  keep  you  yt)ur 
eye  upon  him,  and  if  he  should  be  found 
ti-ansgressing,  as  it   is  very  like  he  will, 


then,  if  it  so  please  you,  I  shall  be  well  con- 
tent you  punish  him  as  your  wisdom  may 
think  fittest." 

It  is  only  necessary  to  add  to  what  hath 
just  been  set  down,  that  Master  Buzzard 
stayed  dinner  with  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  and 
was  well  entertained  of  him  and  his  lady, 
ever  laugliing  at  the  knight's  jests  and  mar- 
velling at  his  incredible  narrations,  but 
never  failing  to  say  something  now  and 
then  which  should  strengthen  the  other's 
misliking  of  John  Shakspeare,  which  failed 
not  of  its  purpose ;  for  the  justice  was  so 
weak  of  conceit  as  to  be  easily  enraged 
against  any  who  seemed  not  to  think  of 
him  so  famously  as  was  evident  he  thought 
of  himself. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

It  is  decreed  :  and  we  must  yield  to  fate. 
Whose  angry  justice,  though  it  threatens  ruin, 
Contempt  and  poverty,  is  ail  but  trial 
Of  a  weak  woman's  constancy  in  sutfering. 

Ford. 

In  felawship  well  could  she  laugh  and  carpe  ; 
She  was  a  worthy  woman  all  hire  live, 
Housbondes  at  the  chirche  dore  had  shehad  five. 

Chaucer. 
I  exact  not  from  you 
A  fortitude  insensible  of  calamity, 
To  which  the  saints  themselves   have  bowed 

and  shown 
They  are   made  of  flesh  and  blood  ;  all  that  1 

challenge 
Is  manly  patience. 

Massinger. 

Hold  out  now, 
And  then  thou  art  victorious. 

Ford. 

Two  persons  were  standing  in  an  empty 
chamber  bare  to  the  very  boards.  A  pain- 
ful seriousness  was  on  the  features  of  each  : 
but  there  was  no  doubting  each  strove  to  con- 
ceal from  the  other  the  exact  state  of  their 
feelings.  They  spoke  low ;  their  voices 
having  that  subdued  sound  which  betokeneth 
great  excitement  of  mind,  with  great  efforts 
to  keep  it  from  other's  knowledge.  One,  a 
man  seeming  to  be  of  the  middle  age,  and 
in  the  prime  of  manhood,  leaned  his  elbow  on 
the  window  sill,  with  his  forehead  resting  on 
his  palm  ;  the  other,  a  woman  of  an  admira- 
ble matronly  appearance,  had  her  arm 
around  his  waist,  and  her  fair  cheek  resting 
upon  his  shoulder.  These  were  John  Shak- 
speare and  his  wife.  They  spoke  only  at 
intervals,  in  the  manner  described  ;  and,  as 


62 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


usual  in  all  troubles,  the   woman   appeared 
to  be  playing  the  part  of  the  comforter. 

"  Take  it  not  to  heart,  John,  I  pray  you," 
said  she,  as  she  seemed  to  press  him  closer 
to  her  side.  "  We  shall  do  bravely  anon. 
We  must  put  up  with  these  buffets  as  we 
best  may  ;  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  can  con- 
tent myself  wondrous  well,  be  my  condition 
ever  so  humble."' 

"  I  doubt  it  not,  dame,"  replied  her  hus- 
band ;  "  but  canst  content  thyself  with  bare 
lyinjj,  naked  walls,  and  an  empty  larder  ?" 

"  Ay,  dear  heart !"  answered  she  very 
readily  ;  "  for  a  longer  space  than  they  are 
like  to  visit  us.  We  may  be  considered  as 
poor  as  any  that  live  ;  but  whilst  I  have  for 
my  yoke-1'ellow  a  good  husband,  a  tender 
father,  and  one  so  industriously  disposed 
witiial,  as  you  have  oft  shown  yourself  to  be, 
I  know  of  no  poverty  that  could  trouble  me 
a  jot." 

"  But  the  children,  dame,"  observed  John 
Shakspeare  in  a  huskish  sort  of  voice. 
"Alack !  Alack !  what  shall  become  of 
them  ?" 

"  O  they  will  do  well  enough,  I  warrant 
you  !"  replied  his  wife  with  a  cheerfulness 
she  was  far  from  feeling.  "  They  can  en- 
dure some  slight  discomfort,  or  they  are  none 
of  mine,  more  especially  when  they  take 
heed  of  their  loving  fatlier's  brave  e.xertions 
to  keep  up  his  heart  and  make  head  against 
this  sudden  adversity." 

"  I  am  bewildered  what  to  set  my  hand 
to,"  said  he,  rising  from  his  position  with 
a  countenance  somewhat  irresolute ;  but 
when  I  look  >ipon  my  stripped  dwelling, 
and  remember  how  delicately  thou  hast  been 
brought  up -" 

"  Tut,  tut,  dear  heart !"  exclaimed  his 
good  dame,  taking  one  of  his  hands  in  hers, 
and  gazing  affectionately  in  his  face  ;  "  I 
should  scorn  myself  coidd  I  not  bear  the  ills 
that  might  visit  my  helpmate.  Think  not 
of  me,  1  pray  you,  for  there  liveth  not  in  the 
world  one  so  hardy  as  am  I  in  all  such  mat- 
ters." John  Sliakspeare  shook  his  head 
mournfully  as  he  looked  in  her  pale  face, 
as  thougli  he  had  his  doubts  she  was  as 
strong  as  she  said. 

"  I  will  essay  all  that  a  man  can,"  said 
he  at  last,  "  in  the  express  hope  this  change 
of  fortune  will  do  thee  no  hurt,  for  thou 
hast  been  an  excellent  good  wife  to  me, 
dame  ;  and  'twould  go  to  my  heart  were 
any  evil  to  happen  to  thee."  At  this  com- 
mendation she  said  never  a  word ;  but  all 
the  woman  was  in  her  eyes  presently,  and 
she  suddenly  tlirew  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  and  laid  iier  face  on  his  bosom. 

"  Woe's  me,   what    poor  foolishness  is 


this  ?"  cried  she,  rising  from  him  a  minute 
after,  with  an  endeavor  to  look  more  cheer- 
ful ;  "  but  I  am  wonderful  pleased  you  will 
try  to  be  doing  something,  and  I  care  not 
what  it  be,  so  that  it  keep  sad  thoughts  from 
your  head  ;  nay,  I  am  assured  of  it,  you 
shall  live  prosperously  the  rest  of  ypur  days, 
put  you  forth  all  your  strength  now  to  bear 
these  troubles." 

"  That  will  I  without  fail,  sweet  heart," 
cried  he.  After  a  brief  space  he  left  the 
chamber. 

Dame  Shakspeare  when  alone,  felt  the 
whole  weight  of  her  misfortune,  for  she 
had  given  such  great  keaps  of  comfort  to 
her  husband,  she  had  not  a  bit  of  ever  such 
smallness  remaining  for  herself.  She  lean- 
ed out  of  the  empty  casement,  but  of  the 
spring  flowers  blooming  in  the  garden  saw 
she  nothing ;  she  beheld  only  her  hapless 
partner  and  her  poor  innocent  children 
lacking  those  comforts  they  had  been  used 
to,  and  she  powerless  as  to  helping  them  in 
their  need.  The  wife  and  the  mother  was 
so  moved  at  the  picture  she  could  not  avoid 
drawing,  as  to  feel  a  sort  of  choking,  and 
such  heaviness  of  heart,  that  at  last  she 
dropped  her  face  upon  her  hands  and  there 
smothered  her  sobs.  All  at  once  she  caught 
the  sound  of  a  very  sweet  singing,  and 
listening  with  what  attention  she  could, 
heard  the  following  words. 

A  COMFORTABLE  CAROL. 

"  Cheer  thee,  my  heart !    Thy  hfe  shall  have  a 
crowning 
This  poor  appareling  cannot  beguile  ; 
Phoebus  himself  hulli  worn  os  dark  a  frowning, 
And  lo  !  all  heaven  is  radiant  with  his  smile  ! 
Bravely  thy  spirit  bear, 
Far  from  each  coward  fear  ; 
What  though  some  trouble  come,  is  all  joy  ban- 
ished I 

Prithee  n  lesson  read, 
In  cv'ry  shivering  weed, 
That  knows  in  winter's  rage  springs  have  not 
vanished. 
Pleasure  is  born  of  thee,  comfort  is  near  thee. 
Glory  thy  boon  shall  bo — Cheer  thee,  O  cheer 
thee  ! 

Cheer  thee,  my  li<;arl !    Iloed  not   the  present 
sorrow 
Let  future  gladness  lliis^h  in  every  thought ; 
Never  a  night  so  black  hut  hath  its  morrow. 
Whose  splendor  huighsall  gloominess  to  nought. 
Though  thou  shouldst  feel  the  wound, 
'Tis  hut  to  plough  the  ground — 
Looks  not  the  soil  as  barren  in  the  furrow  ? 
Yet  o'er  the  sightless  clods. 
Countless  great  plenty  nods. 
When   the   rich  harvest  clothes  the  wide  field 
through ! 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


6B 


Pleasure  is  bom  of  thee,  comfort  is  near  thee, 
Glory  thy  boon  shall  be — Cheer  thee,  O  cheer 
thee  !" 

It  was  nurse  Cicely  singing  to  the  chil- 
dren in  an  upper  chamber,  as  was  her  wont. 
It  had  been  noted,  that  however  much  giv- 
en to  singing  was  she,  she  never  sang  any 
such  songs  as  were  familiar  to  her  hearers  ; 
but  she  would  say  when  spoke  to  on  the 
matter  she  had  learned  them  in  her  youth, 
and  knew  not  by  whom  they  were  writ.  It 
was  the  marvel  of  many  that  they  looked 
to  be  of  a  higher  language  than  ordinary 
ballads,  whereof  the  tunes  were  the  delica- 
test  sort  ever  heard.  Dame  Shakspeare 
felt  exceeding  comforted  at  hearing  the 
foregoing  verses,  and  rising  from  her  lean- 
ing place,  hastily  brushed  away  a  tear  from 
her  eyelids,  as  though  it  was  some  base 
rebel  that  would  needs  be  in  arms  against 
her  authority.  As  she  did  this  she  was 
suddenly  aware  of  a  great  talking  of  voices 
in  what  had  been  the  warehouse,  and  her 
chamber  door  being  presently  thrown  open, 
she  beheld  the  wliole  place  thronged  with 
her  neighbors,  mostly  women  and  children, 
carrying  spare  tables  and  chairs,  and  other 
such  conveniences  as  they  thought  she 
stood  most  in  need  of. 

"  This  way,  neighbors,  this  way  !"  ex- 
claimed the  merry  Widow  Pippins,  who 
seemed  to  be  the  leader  of  the  party. 

"  Ha  !  dame,  how  dost  do  ?"  inquired  she, 
as  she  put  an  old  arm  chair  by  the  side  of 
her.  So  the  villains  have  not  left  thee  so 
much  as  a  rush  for  thy  floor  ?  But  mind  it 
not,  gossip,  for  they  have  given  thee  all  the 
better  cause  for  caring  not  a  rush  for  the 
whole  pack  of  them."  Thereupon  she  had 
a  hearty  laugh,  and  then  bustled  herself 
about  giving  directions  where  to  put  things, 
which  all  did  with  great  alacrity,  that  pres- 
ently there  seemed  some  sort  of  comfort  in 
the  chamber,  albeit  though  no  two  chairs 
were  alike.  Mistress  Malmsey  and  Mis- 
tress Dowlas  were  each  at  the  side  of  Dame 
Shakspeare,  for  she  was  more  overpowered 
by  the  kindness  of  her  neighbors  than  ever 
she  had  been  at  the  great  reverse  she  had 
just  experienced  ;  and  they  two  having  got 
her  seated,  \vere  pressing  of  her  to  take 
some  wine  the  vintner's  wife  had  brought 
with  her,  and  were  bestowing  on  her  all 
sorts  of  friendly  consolation. 
•  "  Now  get  you  gone,  all  of  you,  and  let 
us  see  which  hath  the  best  pair  of  heels," 
said  the  widow,  in  her  cheerfulest  humor,  to 
the  others.  "  Mayhap  if  you  search  thor- 
oughly, you  shall  still  find  some  odd  thing 
or  another  serviceable  to  our  good  neighbor ; 
and  methinks  'twould  be  infamous  of  any 


who  have  wherewithal  to  spare,  to  keep  it 
from  one  who  is  in  such  need." 

"  Ay,  that  would  it,"  said  David  Hurdle, 
who  had  run  from  his  work  on  the  news  of 
John  Shakspeare's  misfortune,  with  a  heavy 
oak  table  nigh  as  much  as  he  coidd  carry. 

"  Methinks  I  have  a  knife  or  two,  and 
mayhap  a  spare  trencher,"  observed  Mother 
Flytrap.  "  But  alack  !  what  a  monstrous 
shame  was  it  to  have  been  so  hard  upon  so 
sweet  a  woman.  Odds  codlings  !  I  could 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  do  them  a  mischief 
for't." 

"  Use  thy  legs  briskly,  and  thy  tongue 
shall  last  the  longer,"  exclaimed  the  Widow 
Pippins  merrily. 

"  That  will  I,  I  warrant  you !"  replied 
the  old  woman,  hobbling  along  with  her 
stick  at  a  rate  she  had  not  attempted  for 
many  a  day. 

"  As  I  live  the  world  groweth  more  vil- 
lainous every  hour  !"  cried  Oliver  Dumps, 
putting  on  one  of  his  dolefuUest  faces. 
"  What  abominable  uncivilness  and  horrible 
tyranny  is  this — what  shameful  usage  and 
intolerable  cruelty  !" 

"  Fine  words  butter  no  parsnips,  Master 
Constable,"  said  the  widow.  '•  Hast  brought 
any  useful  thing  for  our  good  neighbor  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  clean  forgot,"  answered   Oliver. 

"  Speed  thee,  then,  and  give  handsomely," 
exclaimed  she.  "  What  dost  come  here  for, 
with  thy  melancholy  visage  like  that  of  a 
frog  in  a  long  drought  ?  Get  thee  gone  for 
a  good  dozen  of  trenchers,  else  if  ever  I  draw 
thee  a  drop  of  my  liquor  again  call  me  a 
horse.  And,  prithee,"  added  the  merry  wo- 
man, as  he  was  moving  hmiself  off",  "  strive 
if  thou  canst  not  find  out  a  good  store  of 
wholesome  victual  to  put  in  them ;  and 
count  on  for  brimming  measure  from  me  the 
rest  of  thy  life." 

"  How  now  sweetheart,"  cried  she,  when 
there  were  no  others  left  with  Dame  Shak- 
speare save  only  herself.  Mistress  Malmsey, 
and  Mistress  Dowlas,  "  be  not  so  downcast. 
By  my  patience,  there  is  nought  in  this  you 
should  so  much  care  for.  Look  at  me,  who 
have  buried  five  husbands — seem  I  in  any 
way  woe-begone  ?  O'  my  life,  no  !  Per- 
cha  nee  I  should  seena  none  the  less  satisfied 
had  I  buried  a  hundred,  for  there  would  still 
be  plenty  as  good  above  ground,  or  I  am 
hugely  mistaken.  Troth,  care  and  I  have 
never  been  bedfellows,  that's  a  sure  thing." 

"  An'  it  please  you,  dame,  I  will  take  the 
boy  William  to  our  house  till  things  are 
more  settled  than  they  now  are,"  observed 
the  draper's  wife. 

"  And  I  Mill  move  rny  Timothy  to  be  a 


«4 


THE  YOUTII  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


mean  for  setting  your  good  man  on  his  legs 
again,"  said  the  other,  as  affectionately. 

"  I  heartily  thank  you,"  was  ail  I)anic 
Shakspeare  could  say  in  reply. 

"  Pritliee  look  a  little  more  cheerful," 
cried  the  widow.  "  Smile  a  bit  now — 
'twould  do  you  wonderful  good,  I  warrant ; 
and  a  famous  burst  of  laughing  would  be 
worth  any  money  to  you." 

Their  attention  was,  at  this  moment,  at- 
tracted by  some  loud  talking  in  the  adjoin- 
ing chamber  or  warehouse,  which  proved  to 
be  Master  Buzzard's  man,  Saul,  conducting 
of  himself  with  intolerable  insolency  towards 
John  Shakspeare,  evidently  with  a  view  of 
provoking  him  to  some  breach  of  the  peace. 

"  Humph  !"  cxchiimed  he  carelessly  beat- 
ing of  his  boot  with  an  ashen  stick  he  had 
with  him,  as  he  stared  about  the  naked 
chamber  with  exceeding  impudence,  "  me- 
thinks  thy  wits  must  needs  take  to  wool- 
gathering, to  help  thee  to  a  new  stock,  else 
must  thy  customers  lack  ser\-ing,  for  here  is 
as  goodly  a  show  of  nothing  as  ever  I 
saw." 

"  Get  thee  gone,  fellow !"  observed  John 
Shakspeare,  with  that  indifference  an  honest 
man  ever  feels  at  the  insults  of  a  low  vil- 
lain. 

"  Fellow  .'"  cried  Saul  sharply,  "  who  dost 
call  fellow,  I  prithee  ?  I  have  a  few  pounds, 
at  least,  stored  up,  with  a  something  in  my 
purse  to  spend ;  but  thou  art  not  worth  a 
pinch  of  salt  with  all  thou  hast,  is  more  than 
I  can  see  any  color  of  warrant  for  thinking. 
Marry,  I  marvel  to  hear  beggars  give  their 
betters  ill  words." 

"  Wilt  get  thee  gone  ?"  cried  the  other 
in  a  louder  key ;  "  what  dost  want  here  ? 
Say  thy  business,  and  be  off." 

"  Business,  quotha  !"  exclaimed  the  man, 
with  a  sneering  laugh,  "  O'  my  life,  this  l)e 
a  rare  place  for  business.  What  hast  got  to 
sell,  John  Shakspeare  —  spider's  Avebs  ? 
I'faith,  'tis  like  thou  wilt  drive  a  brave  trade 
anon,  provided  thou  canst  keep  up  a  fair  de- 
mand for  such  merchandise." 

"  O"  my  word,  if  tliou  dost  not  take  thyself 
quietly  out  of  my  dwelling  in  a  presently,  I 
will  turn  thee  out,"  said  John  Shakspeare, 
determinedly. 

"  Ha,  indeed,"  replied  the  fellow,  twirling 
his  stick  about,  and  eyeing  his  companion 
superciliously  from  head  to  foot,  "an'  I  be 
not  hugely  mistaken,  'twould  take  a  some- 
what better  man  than  thou  art,  to  do  any 
such  thing." 

"  Away,  fellow !  thou  art  contomptil)le," 
exclaimed  the  other,  making  great  olforts  to 
witiilioid  his  anger ;  "  an'  1  were  but  half 
as  vile  a  wretch  as  thou,  I  would  take  me 


a  rope  and  hang  myself  without  another 
word." 

'•  How  darest  thou  call  names,  thou  piti- 
ful, beggarly  wretch !"  cried  Saul,  approach- 
ing his  companion  with  a  savage  menacing 
look.  "  Dost  think  to  play  the  high  bailiff 
again  ?  'Slife  !  hear  I  any  more  of  thy 
bouncing  speech,  I'll  crack  thy  crown  for 
thee." 

"  Wouldst  I"  exclaimed  John  Shakspeare, 
seizing  the  fellow  so  suddenly  by  the  collar 
of  his  jerkin,  that  he  had  no  time  for  putting 
of  his  threat  in  execution.  "  Wouldst, 
caitiff!"  continued  he,  shaking  him  in  his 
strong  grasp  till  he  appeared  to  have  shook 
all  his  breath  away.  Then  drawing  him 
I  close  to  his  breast,  he  thrust  his  insulter 
from  him  with  such  force,  that  he  sent  him 
reeling  to  the  other  end  of  the  chamber, 
saying,  "  Get  thee  gone  for  a  villain  !" 

As  soon  as  the  man  got  his  footing  he 
was  for  flying  at  the  other  in  a  horrible 
deadly  rage,  to  do  him  some  mischief,  when 
he  was  stopped  by  the  Widow  Pippins, 
Mistress  MaJmsey,  and  Mistress  Dowlas, 
rushing  in  before  him  from  out  of  the  ad- 
joining chamber. 

"  Away,  tliou  scurvy  rogue  !"  exclaimed 
the  widow. 

"  Get  thee  hence,  thou  pitiful  rascal,  or  I 
will  clout  tiiy  head  off  !"  cried  the  vintner's 
wife,  with  no  less  earnestness. 

"  By  my  troth,  an'  thou  stayest  here 
another  minute,  I'll  be  as  good  as  hanging 
to  thee,  tliou  intolerable  villain !"  added 
Mistress  Dowlas,  in  as  great  a  rage  as 
either. 

"  Go  to,  thou  art  a  drab !"  said  Saul,  im- 
pudently, as  he  tried  to  push  by  tliem. 

"  Am  1  a  drab,  fellow  ?"  exclaimed  Mis- 
tress Malmsey,  hitting  of  him  a  box  on  the 
ear  with  all  the  strength  of  her  arm. 

'•  Dost  call  me  drab,  villain !"  cried  the 
draper's  wife,  giving  him  so  sore  a  one  on 
the  other  side  of  his  head  that  it  nearly 
turned  him  round. 

"  ril  drab  thee  !"  said  the  widow,  lifting 
up  her  foot  the  next  moment,  and  giving 
him  a  kick  behind  of  such  force  it  sent  him 
some  paces ;  and  the  three  women  followed 
him  up  with  such  vigor,  that  ftfter  standing 
a  moment,  ipiite  bewildered  witii  the  quick- 
ness and  hurcuness  of  their  blows,  the  fel- 
low was  fain  to  take  to  his  heels ;  but  not 
before  the  widow  had  given  him  a  parting 
benediction  with  her  loot,  in  the  use  of 
which  she  showed  a  marvellous  cleverness, 
that  gave  him  a  good  sUirt  to  begin  witii. 

"As  I  live  that  was  well  done  of  us!" 
exclaimed  the  merry  widow,  as  soon  as 
Saul  had  disappeared,  and  laughing  with 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


65 


her  usual  free-heartedness ;  "  never  knew 
I  so  goodly  a  foot-ball,  or  ever  played  so 
fiimous  a  game.  Indeed,  'twas  exquisite 
sport.  I  would  not  have  missed  my  share 
in  it  for  another  husband.  O'  my  life,  an' 
he  lindeth  himself  comfortable  sitting  for 
the  next  month,  lie  must  be  rarely  fashioned. 
He  must  needs  forswear  chairs,  and  rest  as 
gingerly  on  a  stool  as  would  a  cow  upon 
broken  bottles.     I'faith,  'twas  rare  sport !" 

The  other  two  appeared  to  be  nearly  as 
well  amused,  as  they  returned  to  Dame 
Shakspeare,  who  had  come  as  far  as  the 
door  in  some  alarm,  when  her  neighbors 
burst  into  the  warehouse ;  but  there  were 
two  others,  who  had  observed  Saul's  inso- 
lence from  the  kitchen,  and  these  were 
Maud  and  Humplirey,  and  were  quite  as 
much  moved  at  it  as  any  there.  The  former 
had  been  crying  ever  since  tlie  seizure,  and 
the  other  had  been  endeavoring,  with  a  vast 
show  of  awkward  alfectionateness,  to  give 
her  some  comfort. 

"  Humphrey !"  cried  she,  suddenly  jump- 
ing up  from  the  ground  where  she  had  been 
sitting,  at  hearing  of  her  master  so  insulted, 
and  gazing  on  her  companion  with  a  very 
monstrous  earnestness  ;  "  An'  thou  dost  not 
go  and  cudgel  that  knave  within  an  inch 
of  his  life,  Til  forswear  thy  company.  Ay," 
added  she  witli  a  most  moving  emphasis  ; 
'•  though  I  die  a  maid  for't !" 

"  By  goles,  thou  shall  never  do  so  liorrid 
a  thing!"  exclaimed  Humphrey,  hastily 
catching  hold  of  a  cudgel  that  had  often 
done  good  service  on  himself,  and  darting 
out  at  the  back  door  as  Saul  made  his  exit 
at  the  front.  Now  Humphrey  was  not 
much  given  to  valor :  indeed,  to  speak  the 
exact  trutli,  ho  could  b3  terrible  fearful 
upon  occasions  ;  but  what  will  not  love  do  ? 
All  at  once  Humphrey  felt  himself  a  Jiero  ; 
and  to  save  his  Maud  from  so  unnatural  a 
catastrophe  as  she  had  threatened,  he  would 
that  moment  have  dared  any  danger,  had 
it  been  ever  so  great.  As  he  proceeded 
quickly  along,  he  threw  out  his  arms,  jerked 
up  his  head,  expanded  his  chest,  and  flour- 
ished his  cudgel,  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
queror. No  one  knew  Humphrey.  I  doubt 
hugely  Humplirey  knew  himself,  he  was  so 
changed. 

Saul  left  John  Shakspeare's  house  in  a 
terrible  bad  humor,  as  may  be  supposed. 
His  head  seemed  to  spin  like  a  parish  top, 

and  as  for but  methinks  the  courteous 

reader  needeth  no  retrospective  allusions. 
Suffice  it  to  say  he  was  in  a  tearing  pas- 
sion, and  went  his  way  monstrous  chap- 
fallen,  muttering  all  sorts  of  imprecations, 
with  his  "eyes  on  the  ground  as  though  in- 


tent on  studying  every  pebble  he  trod  on. 
All  at  once  some  one  ran  against  him  with 
such  force  as  nearly  to  send  him  off  his 
legs. 

"  A  murrain  on  thee  !  dost  want  thy  fool's 
head  broke  ?"  shouted  Saul. 

"  Ay,  marry,  and  wliy  not,  if  thou  canst 
do  it!"  replied  Humphrey  in  a  big  voice 
that  almost  frightened  himself.  "  Go  and 
bite  thy  thumb  at  a  stone  wall,  and  be 
hanged  to  thee !  My  head  be  as  good  a 
fool's  head  as  thine,  I  warrant;  and  I  care 
not  who  knows  it.  I  tell  thee  I  take  thee 
to  be  a  scurvy  villain ;  so  have  it  in  thy 
teeth  thou  coal-carrying  knave!" 

"  Bravely  said,  Humphrey !"  cried  a 
neighbor,  astonished  at  such  a  display  in 
one  so  little  noted  for  valor. 

"  Well  done,  my  heart  of  oak !"  ex- 
claimed another,  patting  him  on  the  back 
with  the  same  commending  spirit. 

"  Why,  thou  pitiful  worsted  knave !" 
bawled  out  Master  Buzzard's  man,  recover- 
ing from  his  surprise  at  being  so  abused  of 
so  mean  a  person.  "  'Slife  !  an'  do  I  not 
beat  thee  to  shavings,  I  am  a  Jew." 

"  A  ring,  my  masters — a  ring  !"  bawled 
out  another  ;  and  very  speedily  there  was  a 
circle  of  .-^ome  twenty  men  and  boys,  form- 
ed round  the  two  combatants.  Never  were 
two  persons  so  badly  matched.  Saul  was 
the  best  cudgel-player  in  the  whole  country ; 
but  all  Humphrey's  knowledge  of  it  came 
of  the  blows  he  had  had  of  his  master,  and 
not  without  deserving  it ;  yet  was  Humphrey 
the  favorite  of  the  spectators  beyond  ques- 
tion, all  of  whom  held  the  other  in  huge 
dislike,  for  very  efficient  causes,  and  Hum- 
phrey was  so  encouraged  and  commended 
of  them,  that  althougli  liis  feelings  were 
somewhat  of  a  dubious  sort,  for  all  the  show 
he  made,  it  kept  up  his  valor  famously. 
Presently  the  two  began  playing  of  their 
weapons  very  prettily  ;  but  Humphrey  was 
in  so  monstrous  an  eagerness  to  pay  his 
antagonist,  he  did  nothing  but  strike  away 
as  hard  as  he  could,  in  a  manner  that  quite 
confused  the  practised  cudgel-player.  Saul 
was  in  a  horrible  passion,  which  in  con- 
junction with  other  things,  mayhap  might 
have  made  his  skill  avail  him  so  little  ;  but 
when  he/ound  his  head  broke,  and  heard 
the  shouts  of  triumph  of  tliose  around  him, 
he  became  like  a  mad  beast,  and  struck  out 
wherever  he  could  at  mere  random.  Certes 
Humphrey  got  no  lack  of  thumps  ;  but  his 
head  looked  to  be  to  the  hardness  of  a  bullet, 
and  gave  no  sign  of  being  touched,  while 
Saul  could  scarce  see  out  of  his  eyes  for 
the  blood  running  from  his  broken  head. 

As  it  was  now  a  mere  trial  of  endurance, 


66 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


it  was  easy  to  see  who  would  get  the  best 
of  it,  for  Saul  might  have  cudgelled  a  post 
with  as  much  s'l'^n  of  success  as  he  had 
with  his  present  antagonist;  and  nothing 
could  exceed  the  gratification  of  all  present 
at  the  heartiness  with  which  John  Shaks- 
peare's  man  gave  it  to  the  other.  In  short. 
Saul  got  such  a  drubbing  as  he  liad  never 
had  since  he  was  born ;  and  at  last,  when 
his  strength  was  nearly  exhausted,  a  sharp 
blow  sent  him  to  tlie  ground  like  a  stone. 
Then  rose  a  shout  of  triumph  such  as 
Stratford  had  rarely  heard,  and  Humphrey 
mounted  on  the  shoulders  of  two  butcher's 
apprentices,  and  followed  by  half  the  town 
hurraing  him  as  he  went — -they  were  in 
such  delight  he  had  behaved  himself  so 
valorously,  and  punislied  as  he  deserved  so 
notorious  a  knave — was  earned  like  a  hero 
to  his  ma.ster'ri  dwelling. 

"  Maud  !"  cried  the  victor,  as  he  entered 
the  back  door,  with  his  heart  swelling  with 
exultation. 

"  Well,  Humphrey,"  said  she. 

"  I  have  given  that  varlet  his  deserts." 

"  Hast  ?"  added  she,  approaching  him 
closely,  and  looking  earnestly  into  his  face. 

"  By  goles,  I  do  think  I  have  gone  as 
nigh  killing  the  knave  as  was  possible." 

"  Hast  ?"  repeated  she  with  a  smile  break- 
ing over  her  chubby  cheeks.  "  Then  here's 
at  thee  !"  Thereupon  she  suddenly  seized 
Humphrey  by  his  two  ears  with  her  liuge 
lists,  and  gave  him  as  hearty  a  buss  as  ever 
man  received  of  woman  since  the  world 
commenced. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Mosca.     There's  nought  impossible. 

Volpone.     Yes,  to  be  learned,  Mosca. 

Mosca.     0  no  ;  rich 
Implies  it.     Hood  an  ass  with  reverend  purple, 
So  you  can  liide  his  two  ambitious  ears, 
And  he  shall  pass  for  a  catlicdrcl  doctor. 

Ben  .Tonson. 
Of  an  old  English  gentleman  who  had  an  old 

estate, 
And  kept  up  his  old  mansion  at  a  bountiful 

rate,  » 

"With  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his 

gate, 
Like  the  Queen's  old  courtier,  and  a  courtier 

of  the  Queen's.  Old  Ball.\d. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  William  Shaks- 
peare  vvas  well  off  in  his  schooling  under  so 
ill  a  master  as  Stripes,  who,  though  he  did 
not  treat  him  uncivilly,  in  token  of  such 


welcome  gifts  as  his  mother  ofttimes 
brought,  was  of  too  ignorant  pedantic  a 
nature  to  have  that  heed  whicli  a  young 
scholar  of  any  promise  requireth  :  neverthe- 
less William  took  to  his  book  very  kindly, 
to  the  wonderful  admiration  of  Dame  Shaks- 
peare  and  her  gossips,  and  in  especial  of 
Nurse  Cicely,  which  never  failed  to  bring 
forth  notable  prophecies  of  his  future  great- 
ness from  her,  whereof  more  than  one  per- 
son entertained  them  as  exceeding  credible. 
There  was  no  wake,  or  lamb-ale,  or  other 
festival  in  the  neighborhood  the  bov  was  not 
invited  to  with  his  mother,  at  which  he  was 
continually  called  upon  to  repeat  such 
verses  he  had  learned  of  his  motlier,  or  sing 
such  ballads  as  his  nurse  had  made  him 
familiar  with ;  and  the  goodly  manner  he 
would  perform  what  was  required,  so  won 
upon  the  hearts  of  the  sj)ectators,  that 
praises  out  of  all  number,  and  other  things 
more  substantial  in  great  plenty,  were  the 
sure  consequences.  As  soon  as  he  had 
learned  to  read,  wonderful  was  the  diligence 
with  which  he  perused  all  manner  of  books 
— albeit  he  quickly  exhausted  the  poor  stock 
that  could  be  had  for  his  reading,  for  these 
merely  consisted  of  a  few  volumes,  chiefly 
poems  of  Dame  Shakspeare's,  and  one  or 
two  here  and  there  of  some  neighbor.  Cer- 
tes,  no  great  matter  of  knowledge  was  to 
be  gained  of  such  books;  but  they  sensed 
to  excite  the  young  mind,  and  keep  it  in  a 
restless  yearning  for  more  delectable  food ; 
and  therefore  were  not  entirely  unprofitable. 
It  is  not  to  be  imagined  that  a  child  so 
disposed  took  no  delight  in  the  proper  pas- 
times of  his  age ;  for  the  entire  contrary  is 
nighest  to  the  tnith.  Among  all  his  school- 
fellows, who  entered  into  any  sport  with 
such  absolute  zest  as  Will  Shakspeare  ? 
He  was  the  wildest  of  any.  His  free  spirit 
made  such  play  among  them  as  soon  gained 
for  him  the  liking  of  the  whole  scliool.  He 
grew  up  at  last  to  be  the  chief  leader  in 
their  games — the  captain  of  their  exploits, 
and  the  very  heart  and  principal  of  all  their 
revels.  If  Will  was  not  of  their  company, 
doubtless  were  they  as  much  at  a  loss  as  a 
hive  of  bees  without  their  queen  ;  but  when 
they  were  heard  as  merry  as  crickets  by  a 
winter's  heartli,  calling  lustily  to  each  other, 
crowding  here  and  running  there,  sending 
the  football  bounding  along  the  gniss,  or 
leaping  over  each  other's  backs  as  though 
they  had  wings,  of  a  surety  he  was  to  be 
found  amongst  the  very  foremost.  But  it 
should  be  borne  in  mind  that  there  were 
times,  and  many  limea  too,  when  the  day 
was  in  its  freshest  glory,  and  every  one  of 
his  companions  were  enjoying  fheniseives 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


67 


to  his  heart's  content,  he  would  be  in  some 
out  of  the  way  corner,  half  sitting  half  re- 
clining on  the  floor,  leaning  deeply  studious 
over  some  old  volume  he  had  provided  him- 
self with ;  and  the  merry  shoutings  close  at 
hand,  or  the  pressing  entreaties  of  those  he 
most  liked,  had  never  power  to  draw  hun 
thence  till  he  had  gone  through  it  every 
page. 

More  than  once  too,  when  they  were  out 
together  a'  maying,  or  nutting  in  the  woods, 
he  would  stray  from  the  rest,  perchance  led 
away  by  the  sweet  singing  of  the  birds,  or 
the  delicate  beauty  of  the  blossoms ;  and  in 
some  shady  place  would  sit  him  down  to 
rest,  conning  of  a  book  the  whilst,  ho  had 
carried  under  his  jerkin,  till  somehow  or 
another  he  would  fall  asleep,— and  O  the 
exquisite  pleasant  dreams  he  had  at  that 
time  !  At  tlie  end  he  would  suddenly  start 
up,  rubbing  of  his  eyes  and  looking  in  every 
place  for  the  great  multitude  of  the  fairy 
folk,  who  a  moment  since  in  their  delicate 
finery  seemed  to  be  dancing  so  bravely  be- 
fore him,  and  singing  to  him  such  admirable 
choice  ditties,  and  doing  him  all  manner  of 
delectable  courtesies ;  but  finding  no  sign 
of  such  searched  he  ever  so,  he  would  be  in 
huge  disappointment,  till  the  shouting  of 
his  fellows  woke  him  from  his  strange  be- 
wilderment ;  and  he  would  then  make  what 
haste  he  could  to  join  his  company. 

Of  his  disposition,  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  it  savored  of  as  much  sweetness  as 
ever  lay  in  so  little  a  compass.  There  was 
no  aptness  to  sudden  quarrel  with  him — no 
giving  of  ill  words — no  beating  of  lesser 
boys  than  himself — no  tendency  to  mere 
rude  mischief ;  neither  selfishness,  nor 
covetousness,  nor  any  unmannerly  quality 
whatsoever,  such  as  are  frequently  in  other 
boys  ;  but  he  would  give  freely  of  what  he 
had,  and  assist  those  in  their  tasks  who  were 
backward,  and  very  cheerfully  do  any  civil 
thing  for  another  that  was  in  his  compass, 
and  could  not  bear  to  see  any  cruelty,  or 
unkind  treatment  of  any  sort  let  it  be  among 
big  or  little.  From  this  it  will  readily  be 
conceived,  that  for  his  master  he  had  but 
small  affection,  even  though  Stripes  used 
him  with  more  civilness  than  was  his  wont 
to  others.  This  seeming  partiality,  how- 
ever, lasted  only  as  long  as  Dame  Shaks- 
peare's  gifts  ;  for  when  the  family  grew  to 
be  too  poorly  off  to  send  him  any,  the 
schoolmaster  showed  his  savage  humor  to 
him  as  much  as  to  the  rest. 

At  the  complete  poverty  of  his  father  by 
Master  Buzzard's  ruthless  proceedings,  it 
was  thought  William  would  be  taken  alto- 
gether from  school  to  assist  his  parents  in 


such  things  as  he  could,  for  he  was  now 
grown  to  be  of  some  bigness,  and  John 
Shakspeare  had  not  withal  to  keep  either 
Maud  or  Humphrey  —  who  straightway 
made  themselves  of  the  pale  of  matrimony 
— and  was  striving  as  he  best  might  to  do 
a  little  trade  as  a  glover,  whereof  his  means, 
with  his  neighbors  assistance,  was  only 
enough  to  accomplish  ;  but  it  was  resolved 
by  the  two  alderman's  wives,  who  were  the 
prime  movers  of  all  things  in  his  behalf, 
thiit  it  would  be  best,  as  he  was  getting  so 
forward,  William  should  keep  school  hours, 
and  assist  his  father  at  other  times  ;  and  in 
consequence,  he  continued  to  receive  such 
instructions  as  Stripes  could  give  in  read- 
ing and  writing,  the  science  of  simple  arith- 
metic, and  the  study  of  the  Latin  grammar, 
for  some  time  longer,  wherein  he  got  to  be 
the  very  head  of  the  school,  despite  of  hav- 
ing so  unv/orthy  a  teacher,  and  of  the 
monstrous  negligence  and  wanton  insolency 
with  which  he  was  treated. 

Now  this  fellow  of  a  schoolmaster  was  in 
the  habit  of  using  his  boy  Dickon,  worse 
than  any  turnspit  dog  might  be  treated  by  a 
brutal  scullion.  What  his  wages  were  has 
never  been  known ;  and  indeed,  save  in  the 
way  of  blows,  he  had  never  had  anything  of 
the  sort.  He  got  such  little  victual,  that  it 
was  supposed  of  some  he  would  long  since 
have  taken  to  eating  of  himself,  only  he 
knew  not  where  to  find  a  mouthful.  Truly 
flesh  and  blood  could  not  stand  such  usage ; 
indeed  it  appeared  as  though  they  had  long 
had  nought  to  do  with  the  business,  leaving 
skin  and  bone  to  manage  everything  between 
them.  Dickon  was  reduced  to  such  a  strait, 
that  if  he  caught  sight  of  a  cur  looking  for 
bones,  he  would  take  to  his  heels  presently, 
with  the  full  conviction  the  animal  would 
make  a  grab  at  him  an'  he  got  in  his  way. 
In  him,  however,  such  leanness  was  but  the 
natural  result  of  poor  living  ;  but  his  master, 
though  he  eat  and  drank  greedily  whatever 
he  could  lay  his  hand  on,  looked  not  a  jot 
more  full  of  flesh  than  ordinary.  Indeed, 
he  starved  both  his  boy  and  his  cat,  eating 
from  them  their  share  of  victual,  yet  seemed 
to  carry  nigh  upon  as  hungry  a  look  wtih  hini 
as  either.  His  tyrannical  humor  he  often 
enough  showed  upon  his  scholars,  but  this 
was  nothing  to  be  compared  with  the  sav- 
ageness  with  which  he  was  ever  falling 
upon  poor  Dickon  for  any  trifling  faults ; 
and  it  was  his  custom,  when  he  fancied 
there  was  anything  amiss  in  the  poor  boy's 
behavior,  to  drag  him  into  the  school-room, 
to  be  horsed  by  some  of  the  biggest  of  his 
scholars;  and  then  he  would  lay  on  him 
with  a  great  rod  with  such  fierceness  as  was 


68 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


horrible  to  see,  caring  not  a  jot  for  his  cries, 
or  the  entreaties  of  the  whole  school  he 
should  be  let  go. 

These  exhibitions  of  his  master's  cruelty 
were  intolerable  to  William  Shakspeare, 
and  many  of  his  schoolfellows ;  so  one  day, 
after  such  a  sight,  he  got  several  of  them 
together  he  had  confidence  in,  and  tiiey  be- 
ing moved  with  wrath  and  indignation,  re- 
solved among  themselves  they  would  allow 
of  it  no  longer,  no  matter  what  might  follow ; 
and  tiie  first  class,  which  were  the  chicfest 
for  strength,  entered  into  a  bond  of  mutual 
protection.  Others  of  the  greatest  spirit 
were  drawn  into  the  confederacy,  and  in  a 
little  time  the  whole  school  was  in  a  ferment 
upon  the  matter.  The  very  smallest  of  the 
lot  was  seen  to  double  up  his  little  fist,  with 
a  look  of  vengeance  that  spoke  volumes  of 
meaning.  All  things,  however,  were  left  to 
the  management  of  Will  Shakspeare,  and 
every  one  vowed  to  stand  by  him,  though 
Ihey  were  whacked  to  ribbons.  The  secret 
•was  well  kept.  Stripes  had  not  the  slight- 
•est  knowledge  of  any  such  feeling  against 
him,  and  the  next  day  rushed  into  the  school- 
room, hauling  in  Dickon  by  the  ear,  who 
was  making  of  a  ])itiful  lamentation,  and 
cutRng  him  mercilessly  by  the  way. 

"  Will  Shakspeare  !"  shouted  the  school- 
master ;  "  horse  me  this  villain  straight." 
The  boy  moved  not  an  inch. 

"  Will  Shakspeare,  I  say !"  thundered 
Stripes,  with  increased  rage;  "horse  me 
this  caitiff,  I  toll  thee."  Still  his  scholar 
kept  the  same  unmovedness,  and  every  one 
appeared  studying  of  their  tasks  with  more 
than  ordinary  diligence,  nevertheless  their 
little  hearts  were  a  beating  famously. 

"  Why,  thou  villain,  what  dost  mean  by 
this  ?"  exclaimed  the  pedagogue,  furiously, 
letting  go  his  hold  of  Dickon,  and  catching 
up  his  cane.  "I'll  make  thee  hear,  I  war- 
rant." In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  every 
boy  was  out  of  his  form. 

"  Now,  Tom  Green  !"  cried  one. 

"  Now,  Jack  Ilemings  !"  shouted  another. 

"At  him,  Dick  Burbage!"  exclaimed  a 
third. 

"  On  him,  Harry  Condell !"  bawled  a 
fourth;  and  in  an  instant,  there  was  a  rush 
upon  the  astonished  schoolmaster  from  all 
parts  of  the  school. 

"  Ha !  dost  rebel  ?"  screamed  he,  making 
furious  efforts  to  cut  them  with  his  cane, 
■witli  his  cadaverous  visage  livid  with  pas- 
sion.    "  'Slight,  I'll  make  thee  rue  it !" 

But  for  all  his  terrible  efforts  lie  was 
speedily  overpowered.  The  boys  came  upon 
him  with  all  the  spirit  of  ants  disturbed  in 
their  nest ;  some  clung  to  a  leg,  others  to 


an  arm.  They  jumped  upon  his  neck,  and 
hung  upon  his  jerkin  in  such  numbers,  tliat 
he  could  do  nought  in  the  world,  but  threat- 
en them  with  the  horriblest  imprecations. 
At  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  Dickon, 
who  had  regarded  this  sudden  movement 
out  of  his  wits  with  sheer  amazement,  was 
called  to  hold  his  back  to  take  his  master 
on ;  and  though  at  first  he  showed  some 
sign  of  unwillingness,  he  was  soon  forced 
by  the  conspirators  to  do  as  they  bade  him. 

"  I'll  have  thee  hanged,  villains !"  bawled 
the  pedagogue,  as  he  was  being  hoisted  by 
the  strongest  of  his  scholars  upon  the  back 
of  the  poor  boy  he  had  used  so  inhumanly, 
malgreall  his  strugglings and fumings.  "I'll 
lash  the  skin  off  thy  pestilent  bones.  I'll 
scourge  every  one  of  thee  to  death.  Let 
me  go,  thou  vile  wretches  !" 

"  Hold  on,  Dickon  !"  cried  some. 

"  Keep  him  fast,  my  masters  I"  exclaimed 
others,  and  shouts  of  encouragement  arose 
from  all.  Dickon  did  hold  fast,  doubtless  in 
some  slight  pleasure,  for  all  his  seeming  un- 
willingness, and  he  had  no  lack  of  helpers 
in  his  office ;  so  that  Stripes  was  very 
speedily  prepared  for  that  punishment  he 
had  with  so  little  discretion  inflicted  upon 
others.  As  soon  as  he  began  to  be  aware 
of  what  was  intended  for  him,  he  was  like 
one  in  a  phrenzy.  Mad  with  fear,  rage,  and 
indignation,  he  redoubled  his  threats  and  his 
struggles,  but  all  to  small  profit :  for,  whilst 
he  was  held  down  as  firm  as  in  a  vice  by 
some,  others,  one  after  another,  laid  into  him 
with  all  their  might,  till  he  roared  for  mercy. 
These,  then,  taking  the  places  of  his  holders, 
divers  in  their  turn  assisted  in  the  tyrant's 
punishment,  till  not  one  of  the  whole  school 
but  had  repaid  him  with  interest  tlie  unde- 
served blows  he  had  received  at  his  hands. 
To  describe  the  joy  with  which  all  this  was 
done  by  the  scholars,  their  uproarious  shouts 
and  cheers,  or  the  horrible  bad  humor  of 
their  master,  is  clean  out  of  the  question.  I 
doubt  not  it  will  be  imagined  of  many.  Tiie 
end  was,  at  a  signal  he  was  dropped  on  the 
floor,  so  completely  tamed  of  his  tyrannical 
humors,  he  woulii  not  have  struck  at  a 
mouse, — where  he  was  left  to  put  himself 
to  rights  as  he  might, — and  tiicn  tlie  whole 
school  took  their  leaves  of  him  very  orderly. 

The  next  day  they  camo  to  the  school  as 
usual,  but  all  in  a  body ;  the  bigger  boys 
first,  and  tlie  little  ones  coming  after,  and 
every  one  went  to  his  place,  and  took  to  his 
studies,  as  if  nothing  had  happened  out  of 
the  ordinary.  Doubtless,  they  had  come  to 
the  resoluon  to  have  at  him  again,  showed 
he  any  more  of  his  insutfeniblo  cruelties ; 
but  there  was  small  need  of  any  sucli  tiling, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


69 


for  there  never  was  so  altered  a  man  seen 
as  was  Stripes,  the  schoolmaster.  He  heard 
them  their  lessons  with  a  sort  of  suavity 
that  was  marvellous  beyond  all  things — 
praising  of  every  one  as  though  he  had  got 
for  his  scholars  such  prodigies  of  genius  as 
could  not  be  met  with  elsewhere  —  and 
taking  no  more  thought  of  canes  and  rods, 
than  if  such  things  had  never  been  in  his 
experience.  As  for  Dickon,  he  showed  liis 
master  a  fair  pair  of  heels  directly  he  had 
him  off  his  back,  and  was  shortly  after  taken 
into  the  service  of  an  honest  yeoman,  father 
to  one  of  the  scholars. 

It  so  happened,  once  on  a  time,  as  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare  and  his  chief  companions 
were  strolling  together,  they  came  upon  the 
town   crier  giving  note  to  the  inhabitants, 
that  my  Lord  of  Leicester's  players  being 
in  the  town,  would  perform  a  play  at  a  cer- 
tain hour,  to  which  the  citizens  were  in- 
vited at  a  small  charge.     This  put  some  of 
them  in  a  monstrous  desire  to  behold  so 
goodly  an  entertainment — particularly  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare,  who  had  beheld  nought  of 
the  kind  in  all  his  life  ;  but  others,  his  eld- 
ers, had  seen  plays  more  than  once,  and  they 
gave  him  such  moving  accounts  of  what  ex- 
quisite pleasant  pastime  was  to  be  found  in 
them,  that  he  did  nothing  but  wish  he  could 
get  to  a  sight  of  such.     Unluckily,  he  had 
no  money  of  any  kind,  and  his  father's  ne- 
cessities were  so  great  he  knew  none  could 
be  spared   him.     What  to  do  he  knew  not ; 
for  though  he  could  get  standing  room  for  a 
penny,  no   sign  of  a  penny  could  he  see 
anywhere.      He   knew  that  divers   of   his 
schoolfellows  were  intent  upon  going,  and  \ 
he  would  have  been  glad  enough  to  have  ■ 
joined  them,  but  he  saw  no  hope  of  the  kind,  ! 
by  reason  of  wanting  the  necessary  price  of' 
admission.     It  however  did  so  turn  out,  that  ; 
the  father  of  one  of  the  boys  was  an  espe- 
cial acquaintance  of  the  head  of  the  players,  ' 
by  which  means  Richard  Burbage  not  only 
got  to  see  the  play  for  nothing,  but  moved 
his  fither  to  allow  of  his  schoolfellow.  Will  i 
Shakspeare,   having  the    like   permission ;  I 
which,  to  the  latter's  extreme  comfort  was 
granted. 

The  players  gave  their  entertainment  in 
the  inn  yard  of  the  Widow  Pippins,  on  a 
raised  platform  in  front  of  the  gallery.  They  ; 
were  not  troubled  with  scenery,  and  made  ; 
no  particular  display  of  a  wardrobe,  but  the 
merry  interlude,  called  "  Gammer  Gurton's  ' 
Needle,"  a  huge  favorite  at  that  time,  which 
was  then  and  there  played  by  them,  required 
little  such  accompaniment.    The  spectators, 
at  least  the  greater  number,  stood  in  the 
yard ;  but  those  who  chose  to  pay  more,  | 


were  accommodated  with  seats  at  the  gal 
lery  and  casements.  WiUiam  Shakspeare, 
by  going  early  with  his  fellows,  got  a  front 
place,  and  waited,  in  a  marvellous  eagerness, 
to  see  the  interlude.  Presently  there  was  a 
movement  made  by  his  neighbors,  which 
caused  him  to  turn  round  like  the  rest,  and 
he  saw  it  was  occasioned  by  the  entrance 
into  the  gallery  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  his 
lady,  and  his  son,  who  took  the  best  places; 
elsewhere  was  seen  Mistress  Malmsey  and 
Mistress  Dowlas,  in  their  choicest  hnery, 
pointing  out  their  acquaintances  to  each 
other;  and  either  up  or  down,  half  the  good 
folks  of  Stratford  might  have  been  recog- 
nized, intent  upon  nothing  so  much  as  see- 
ing the  play. 

At  last  the  curtain  was  moved,  and  a  be- 
ginning was  made  of  the  play  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  Hodge  and  Deacon.  The  piti- 
ful manner  in  which  the  one  complains  to 
the  other  of  the  bad  state  of  his  lower  gar- 
ment, and  the  right  doleful  way  of  his  com- 
panion's condolences  on  the  matter,  were 
received  by  the  audience  with  loud  roars  of 
laughter.  Then,  when  Deacon  acquaints 
Hodge  of  Gammer  Gurton  and  her  maid 
Tib  having  been  by  the  ears  together,  mak- 
ing of  the  House  a  perfect  Bedlam,  and  the 
other  protests  he  was  monstrous  afraid  some- 
thing serious  would  happen,  having  taken 
note  of  the  awful  manner  in  which  Tom 
Tankard's  cow  frisked  her  tail,  there  was  no 
less  mirthfulness.  Upon  Hodge  proceeding 
homeward  and  meeting  with  Tib,  and  hear- 
ing that  all  this  turmoil  had  been  occasioned 
by  the  Gammer  losing  of  her  needle  ;  v.'hen, 
upon  spying  of  Gib,  the  cat,  up  to  the  ears 
in  her  milk-bowl,  she  let  hill  the  breeches 
she  was  clouting  with  all  diligence,  the 
humor  of  the  dialogue  seemed  equally  well 
relished.  But  when  it  came  to  Gammer 
Gurton's  terrible  to  do  because  of  her  loss, 
her  monstrous  anxiousness  to  recover  it, 
her  suspicions  of  the  honesty  of  her  neigh- 
bors, her  intrigue^  and  quarrels  with  them, 
and  the  interference  of  no  less  a  person  than 
the  parson  of  the  parish.  Dr.  Rat,  to  make 
peace  again,  there  was  a  choice  roaring  I 
warrant  you ;  and  this  was  only  exceeded 
when  Hodge,  upon  sitting  of  himself  down, 
discovered  the  lost  needle,  to  his  great  smart, 
in  consequence  of  its  having  been  left  stick- 
ing in  his  rent  garment. 

I  doubt  much  whether  the  finest  play 
ever  \vrit,  was  so  v/ell  relished  of  an  audi- 
ence as  was  tins  rude  coarse  interlude,  by 
the  simple  burgesses  of  Stratford.  Even  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy  laughed  as  though  he  would 
never  have  done.  As  for  William  Shaks- 
peare, it  made  such  impression  on  him,  never 


70 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


having  seen  anjlhing  of  tlie  sort,  that  the 
next  day,  and  very  often  after,  lie  was  to  be 
seen,  witli  liis  companions,  Burbage,  Green, 
Condell,  and  Heniings,  making  players  of 
themselves  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner  of 
the  town,  essaying  to  play  that  very  inter- 
lude, by  one  taking  one  cliaracter  and  the 
rest  others ;  and  it  was  said  by  some  who 
saw  them  at  it,  that  the  seeing  these  boys 
aping  the  players  out  of  their  own  heads  as 
they  did,  was  nigh  upon  as  rare  a  sight  as 
seeing  the  players  themselves.  All  these 
five  were  ever  at  it ;  and  the  playing  of  Gam- 
mer Gurton's  Needle  took  the  place  of  all 
other  sports  whatsoever.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  company  got 
s^ch  reception,  they  repeated  their  visits  fre- 
quently ;  and  young  Burbage's  father  having 
shown  some  talent  as  a  player,  they  took  him 
to  be  of  their  company. 

On  one  occasion,  William  Shakspeare 
was  sent  with  some  gloves  to  a  certain  Sir 
Marmaduke  de  Largesse,  living  at  Wilne- 
cott,  at  an  excellent  old  mansion  there,  who 
delighted  in  keeping  up  the  country  sports 
and  festivities,  and  was  noted  for  miles  round, 
what  extreme  pleasure  he  took  in  anything 
that  smacked  of  antiquity.  His  hospitality 
was  nnboundcd,  and  his  table  was  ever  loaded 
with  the  choice.st  of  good  victual,  to  which 
all  might  seat  themselves  according  to  their 
quality  ;  and  what  was  left  was  given  to  tlie 
poor  by  the  porter  at  the  gate.  No  one  ever 
came  there  hungry  that  did  not  leave  with 
as  much  as  he  liked  to  eat  and  drink,  under 
his  belt;  and,  if  it  was  needed,  a  something 
in  his  purse  to  carry  him  along.  In  his 
cooking  he  was  more  careful  there  should 
be  a  good  plenty  of  wholesome  viands,  than 
that  any  show  of  extreme  niceness  should 
be  visible  in  the  dishes ;  and  as  for  what  he 
gave  to  drink,  it  was  chiefly  honest  ale,  of 
his  own  brewing,  of  such  fine  flavor  and 
strength  as  was  not  to  be  matched,  go  where 
you  would. 

Having  passed  through  an  avenue  of  lofty 
trees,  which  led  up  to  the  house,  admiring, 
as  he  approached  it,  its  fair  appearance  and 
antique  character,  on  making  known  his  er- 
ranfl  he  was  ushered  by  a  jolly-looking  but- 
ler into  a  spacious  stone-tloored  chamber, 
lighted  with  tnmsomc  windows,  the  walls  of 
which  were  garnished  with  a  prodiiral  as- 
sortment of  corslets  and  helmets  arranged 
in  rows,  with  coats  of  mail,  military  jerkins 
or  shirts  of  leather,  halberts,  bucklers,  pikes, 
bills,  crossbows,  and  all  manner  of  tiie  like 
weapons  and  defences.  An  oak  table  that 
went  the  whole  length  of  the  chamber,  was 
covered  witli  smoking  viands,  brimming 
black  jacks,  and  full  trenchers.     The  upper 


and  lower  messes  being  divided  by  a  huge 
saltcellar, — all  around  was  a  busy  company 
of  friends  and  retainers,  doing  honor  to  the 
feast :  and  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  a  fa- 
mous tall  chair,  sat  a  ruddy,  stout,  pleasant- 
faced  gentleman,  with  hair  and  beard  white 
and  plentiful ;  a  full  ruff  such  as  might  have 
been  in  fashion  some  score  of  years  since, 
and  a  serviceable  doublet,  with  trunks  and 
hose  of  a  sober  color.  The  hilt  of  his  ra- 
pier came  up  to  his  breast,  but  he  held  it  as 
carefully  as  if  it  had  been  an  old  friend,  and 
I  doubt  not  would  sooner  have  gone  witliout 
his  napkin  at  his  meals,  tlian  without  so  ap- 
proved a  companion.  He  kept  discoursing 
cheerfully  with  those  nighest  him,  ever  and 
anon  glancing  his  eyes  round  to  see  that  the 
carver  did  his  duty,  and  that  all  were  well 
served.  This  was  Sir  Marmaduke  de  Lar- 
gesse. 

William  Shakspeare  had  not  entered  the 
hall  many  minutes  ere  he  was  spied  by  the 
old  knight,  who  in  a  kind  voice  bade  him 
come  near  and  state  his  business. 

"  Gloves,  eh  I"'  exclaimed  he  pleasantly, 
upon  hearing  of  his  errand.  "  Hie  tlieii  to 
a  seat  at  the  table — get  thee  a  good  meal 
and  a  fair  draught — after  that  if  tliou  art  in 
the  humor  come  to  me  and  I  will  attend  thy 
business  with  all  proper  diligence."' 

There  was  such  sweetness  in  the  beha- 
vior of  this  old  gentleman,  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  boy  hesitating  to  do  what  he 
was  desired,  even  had  he  cared  not  to  be  of 
the  feast,  so  he  went  with  due  deference 
below  the  salt,  where  place  was  cheerfully 
made  for  him,  and  eVtry  one  of  his  neigh- 
bors commenced  pressing  of  him  to  this  and 
the  other  tempting  dish  witli  such  cordiality, 
as  soon  put  him  quite  at  home  witli  them. 
A  trencher  full  of  excellent  fare,  he  quickly 
found  smoking  at  his  hand  so  enticingly, 
that  he  was  fain  to  set  to  with  exceeding 
good  will,  and  it  was  a  truly  pleasant  part  of 
the  entertainment  to  note  the  anxiousness  of 
his  neighbors,  that  he  should  have  what  he 
liked  kest,  and  as  much  of  it  a.s  he  could 
fancy.  In  all  honesty  he  made  a  famous 
meal,  and  after  drinking  sparingly  of  the 
ale,  he  was  ready  to  iUtend  to  his  errand. 
Presently  a  most  tiiankful  grace  was  said 
by  the  chaplain,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 
tables  were  cleared,  and  all  had  gone  their 
several  ways,  save  only  some  guests  w1ki 
kept  their  jilaces,  and  continued  conversing 
with  their  bountiful  kind  entertainer.  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare  did  not  move,  for  he  was 
waiting  for  some  sign  from  tlie  knight  of  his 
being  at  leisure. 

"  Prithee  let  me  hear  that  ballad  of  Wil- 
liam the  CoiKiueror,  thou  wort  speaking  of, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


71 


Master  Peregrine,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke  to 
a  curious  sort  of  pantaloon-looliing  person, 
wearing  a  huge  pair  of  spectacles,  mounted 
on  his  peaked  nose. 

"  O'  my  hfe,  I  doubt  hugely  I  can  say  but 
a  verse  or  two,"  replied  Master  Peregrine, 
in  a  thin  small  voice.  I  heard  it  when  I  was 
a  boy,  and  never  since,  nor  have  I  met  it  in 
print  anywhere,  tliough  I  have  searched 
wherever  there  was  likelihood  of  its  being 
to  be  found.  Indeed  I  would  give  something 
to  know  it  thoroughly,  for  I  doubt  not  'tis 
exceeding  ancient,  and  one  of  the  very  rarest 
ballads  that  ever  were  made." 

"  Let  us  hear  what  of  it  is  in  your  re- 
membrance, I  pray  you,"  e.xclaimed  the 
chaplain,  who  was  one  with  a  venerable 
worthy  aspect,  and  was  then  employed  in 
brewing  a  cup  of  sack  for  the  old  knight 
and  his  guests,  in  the  which  he  was  esteemed 
famous. 

"  Well,  said.  Sir  Johan,"  said  a  young 
gallant,  a  near  kinsman  to  Sir  Marmaduke. 
*'  1  love  an  old  ballad  as  well  as  any." 

"  Thou  lovest  a  pretty  woman  better  of 
the  two,  Sir  Valentine,  I'll  warrant,"  cried  a 
companion  merrily. 

"  That  doth  he  Sir  Reginald,  I'll  be  sworn, 
or  he  is  none  of  my  blood,"  replied  the  old 
knight  in  the  same  humor. 

"  Well,  I  care  not  to  deny  the  impeach- 
ment," answered  his  kinsman  with  a  smile. 
"  Doubtless  I  can  con  either  upon  occasion, 
and  get  them  by  heart  too  if  they  be  wor- 
thy." 

"  Marry,  and  very  properly,"  cried  Sir 
Marmaduke,  and  then  with  a  famous  arch 
look  added,  "  I  doubt  though  you  would  like 
to  have  your  jiretty  woman  as  old  as  your 
ballad, — eh,  nephew  ?" 

"  No,  by  St.  Jeronimo !"  exclaimed  Sir 
Valentine  with  such  emphasis,  it  raised  a 
laugh  all  round. 

"  Well,  give  me  an  old  ballad  for  my 
money,"  cried  Master  Peregrine  with  a  mar- 
vellous complacency.  "  Methinks  there  is 
nothing  like  the  delicate  pleasure  it  afFord- 
eth,  if  so  be  you  stick  it  on  the  wall  with 
some  of  its  fellows,  and  go  to  the  perusal  of 
it  when  you  have  a  mind." 

"  There  the  ballad  hath  it  hollow,"  obser- 
ved Sir  Johan  gravely,  yet  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye  that  savored  of  some  humor.  "  Being 
of  the  church,  perchance  I  am  not  the  fittest 
to  speak  on  so  light  a  matter,  but  in  all  my 
philosophy,  I  know  not  of  ever  a  pretty 
woman  who  allowed  herself  to  be  stuck  on 
the  wall  with  her  fellows,  were  it  even  for  a 
single  moment."  This  sally  also  occasioned 
great  laughing,  after  which  Master  Pere- 
grine was  pressed  for  his  ballad. 


"  It  is  of  some  length,"  said  he  ; "  and  if  I 
remember  me  right,  is  writ  in  three  separate 
fyttes  or  divisions." 

Then  each  of  the  company  listened  with 
courteous  attention,  Master  Peregrine  com- 
menced repeating  of  the  verses  he  had 
spoken  of. 

'•  I  regret  my  memory  faileth  me  in  the 
rest  of  the  verses,  for  I  doubt  not  they  would 
be  found  well  worthy  of  a  hearing,"  said  the 
antiquary,  suddenly  coming  to  a  halt. 

"  Think  awhile — mayhap  they  shall  return 
to  your  remembrance,"  said  the  chaplain. 

"  Ay,  do.  Master  Peregrine  ;  for  I  should 
be  loath  to  lose  any  part  of  so  goodly  a  bal- 
lad," added  the  old  knight,  who,  with  the  rest, 
appeared  to  take  infinite  interest  in  it. 

"  Nay,  as  I  live,  I  know  not  a  verse  more," 
replied  the  other,  seemingly  in  some  vexa- 
tion when  he  found  his  thinking  was  to  no 
profit.  "  Indeed,  I  should  be  heartily  glad 
could  I  meet  with  the  other  parts,  for  they 
are  of  a  very  singular  curiousness." 

"  I'faith,  I  should  be  well  pleased  myself 
to  hear  the  rest  on't,"  remarked  Sir  Marma- 
duke, and  his  guests  spoke  much  to  the  same 
purpose. 

"  An'  it  please  your  worship,  methinks  I 
can  give  you  every  line  of  it,"  said  young 
William  Shakspeai-e,  who  had  fidgetted 
about  sometime  without  daring  to  speak. 

"  Ha,  Gloves!  art  there  ?"  oxlaimed  the 
old  knight,  merrily  ;  "  in  very  truth  I  knew 
not  of  thy  presence.  Come  hither,  I  prithee." 

"  Dost  indeed  know  ought  of  it,  young 
sir  ?"  inquired  Master  Peregrine,  looking  at 
the  boy  earnestly  through  his  spectacles,  as 
he  approached  him. 

"  Every  word,  an'  it  please  you,"  replied 
William. 

"  Let  us  hear  of  it  then,  and  quickly," 
cried  Sir  Marmaduke,  putting  his  hand 
kindly  on  the  boy's  head.  William  Shaks- 
peare  saw  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him ; 
yet  there  was  a  friendliness  in  every  aspect 
which  gave  him  nought  to  fear.  Standing 
where  he  was,  with  a  gTaccful  carriage  of 
himself,  and  a  wonderful  pleasant  delivery, 
he  presently  went  on  with  the  verses. 

"  Bravely  spoken  !"  exclaimed  the  old 
knight,  who  had  observed  and  listened  to  the 
boy  manifestly  witli  a  more  than  ordinary 
satisfaction  in  his  benevolent  aspect.  "  Never 
heard  I  aught  more  properly  delivered." 

"  Nor  I,  by'r  Lady,"  said  Master  Pere- 
grine, in  a  similar  excellent  humor.  "  Where 
didst  learn  this  exquisite  ballad,  young  sir  ?" 

"  An'  it  please  you,  my  mother  taught  it 
me,"  replied  William  Shakspeare. 

"  Hast  any  more  such  in  thy  memory !" 
inquired  the  other. 


73 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  A  score  at  least,  an'  it  please  j'ou,"  an- 
swered the  boy  ;  "  most  moving  ones  of  the 
doings  of  valiant  knights  ;  and  sundry  of  a 
delicater  sort,  ccncerning  of  the  love  of  fair 
ladies;  besides  which  I  have  store  of  fairy 
roundelays,  that  I  learned  of  Nurse  Cicely, 
which  smack  most  sweetly  of  the  dainty 
blossoms." 

"  O'  my  life,  thou  art  a  treasure  !"  ex- 
claimed Master  Peregrine,  in  a  most  pleased 
astonishment. 

"  Stick  him  against  the  wall,  I  prithee  !" 
cried  Sir  Reginald  merrily. 

"  Marry,  methinks  he  is  a  wall  of  himself, 
or  at  least  as  good  as  one  that  is  ever  so  well 
covered  witii  ballads,"  remarked  Sir  Valen- 
tine ;  "  you  could  not  have  fallen  into  more 
choice  company.  Master  Antiquarian." 

"  So  thou  art  John  Shakspeare's  son,  of 
Stratford,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke  kindly  to 
him,  after  he  had  made  the  boy  say  some- 
thing of  who  he  was  ;  "  we  must  be  of  better 
acquaintance.  Come  thou  here  as  often  as 
it  pleaseth  thee  ;  and  if  thou  art  for  books, 
I  have  some  thou  wouldst  be  glad  to  be  rea- 
ding of,  I  make  no  manner  of  doubt.  I  tell 
you  what,  my  masters,"  added  he,  turning  to 
his  guests,  "  I  have  a  pleasant  device  in  my 
head,  which  perchance  may  be  exceedingly 
profitable  to  us  all ;  and  it  is  no  other  than 
to  take  this  good  boy  with  us  to  Kenilworth, 
to  see  the  queen's  highness,  and  he  shall  en- 
tertain us  on  the  road  with  some  of  those 
rare  ballads  he  hath  spoken  of." 

This  suggestion  was  heartily  received  by 
the  company,  and  after  being  well  commen- 
ded, and  received  bountiful  tokens  of  good 
will  from  all,  William  Shakspeare  returned 
home,  bearing  a  message  to  his  father  to  tlie 
effect  just  alluded  to. 


CHAPTER  X. 

See,  she  comes : 

How  sweet  her  innocence  appears  ;  more  like 

To  Heaven  itself,  tlian  any  sacrifice 

That  can  be  offered  to  it. 

Massi.n'ger. 
I'll  go  hunt  tlie  badger  by  owl-light : 
'Tis  a  deed  of  darkness. 

Wei!steii. 

The  next  morning  early  there  was  a  won- 
derful stir  amongst  the  neighbors  at  noting 
a  brave  cavalcade  enter  Henry  Street,  and 
stop  at  John  Shakspeare's  door,  and  pre- 
sently there  came  out  the  boy  William, 
whom  his  mother  had  carefully  dressed  in 
his  best  apparel,  grieving  in  her  heart  she 


had  no  better  to  give  him,  and  by  his  father 
was  set  upon  an  amliling  palfrey,  that  ap- 
peared to  have  been  brought  for  him.  AD 
of  his  acquaintance  were  grouped  about, 
marvelling  famously  to  see  Will  Shakspeare 
riding  away  in  the  midst  of  persons  of  wor- 
ship with  as  great  an  air  with  him  as  he 
were  a  lord's  son.  They  could  scarce  believe 
their  eyes  ;  but  what  sweet  pleasure  and 
pardonable  pride  were  felt  by  the  parents, 
who,  after  their  respectful  salutations  to  the 
good  knight  and  his  company,  at  their  door 
watched  their  young  son  as  long  as  ever 
they  could  hold  him  in  sight,  sitting  his  pal- 
frey so  gallantly,  he  was  the  admiration  of 
all  who  saw  him.  I'faith  !  It  was  a  thingto 
talk  of  for  the  rest  of  their  days,  and  the  good 
dame  was  never  known  to  tire  of  it. 

Away  they  went  ;  Sir  Marmaduke,  his 
two  kinsmen,  Master  Peregrine,  Sir  Johan 
the  chaplain,  and  young  William,  and  some 
half  dozen  of  the  knight's  serving  men,  all 
on  horses  ;  and  their  passing  along  the  town 
made  the  citizens  come  running  out,  and 
the  dames  were  seen  lifting  up  their  babes 
that  they  might  get  a  sight  of  good  Sir  Mar- 
maduke. Nothing  was  like  the  respect 
shown  him  wherever  he  passed,  and  for  all 
he  liad  cordial  greeting,  and  some  kind  word 
or  another.  Indeed,  he  was  lield  in  especial 
esteem  wherever  liis  name  was  known,  and 
few  there  were  in  the  whole  country  who 
knew  it  not,  ibr  the  old  knight  was  a  gentle- 
man of  ancestry  and  blood,  of  exceeding  an- 
cient name,  and  of  large  possessions,  whereof 
the  greater  part  liad  been  possessed  by  his 
family  many  generations.  The  De  Larges- 
ses had  also  held  high  offices  ;  had  l)cen 
famous  soldiers,  prelates,  judges,  and  tlie 
like  honorable  persons,  and  had  ever  been 
known  for  a  fair  name  and  an  open  hand. 
The  present  possessor  appeared  to  have  in- 
herited all  the  good  qualities  of  liis  ances- 
tors ;  and  though  he  was  called  by  no  higher 
title  than  good  Sir  Marmaduke,  I  doubt 
hugely  any  prouder  title  could  have  become 
him  better.  He  had  never  been  known  to  be 
in  a  passion  ;  and  though  ever  inclined  for 
a  jest,  his  mirth  had  no  otience  in  it  at  any 
time.  There  sat  he  as  stout  of  limb  as  of 
heart,  on  a  noble  grey  horso,  sleek-coated 
and  well  limbed,  ever  and  anon  patting  his 
graceful  neck  with  some  couunendabic 
speech,  which  the  poor  brute  beast  took  as 
proudly  as  though  he  knew  the  value  ot 
such  behavior  I'roui  so  respected  a  (juarter. 

On  each  side  of  him. rude  his  kinsmen  in 
all  the  bravery  of  the  tiuies.  They  had 
gone  to  the  wars  in  their  youth,  ami  though 
still  scarce  upon  manhood,  Sir  Valentine 
being  but  twenty,  iuid  his  cousin  Sir  Regi- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


73 


nald  five  years  his  senior,  had  shown  such 
valor  against  the  enemy  that  they  had  re- 
ceived knighthood.  The  first  was  full  of 
fine  chivalrous  notions,  as  became  his  sol- 
diership ;  and  would  have  dared  all  manner 
of  great  dangers  to  have  gained  the  kind 
opinions  of  fair  ladies,  as  became  his  man- 
hood. Of  the  inestimable  sweet  pleasures 
of  love  could  he  think  by  the  hour  together ; 
and  when  he  took  to  his  gittern,  doubtless  it 
was  to  breathe  forth  some  soft  lay  learned  of 
him  in  France  of  the  gallants  there.  Yet  of 
a  most  honorable  heart  was  he,  as  became  a 
true  lover  ;  and  his  rapier  was  ready  to  leap 
out  of  its  scabbard  at  the  bruit  of  any  wrong 
done  to  any  woman.  He  was  of  a  clear 
transparent  skin,  whereon  the  delicate  mous- 
tache had  already  come  to  some  conspi- 
cuousness,  and  the  sharp  outline  of  each 
fair  feature  had  such  fineness  as  was  exqui- 
site to  behold.  Eyes  had  he  in  color  like 
unto  a  bright  sky  in  harvest  time,  and  his 
hair  was  of  a  rich  soft  brown,  that  grew  in 
waving  tblds  over  all  his  head  and  neck. 

Sir  Reginald  was  more  manly-looking  ; 
darker  in  complexion,  hair,  and  beard  ;  less 
delicate  in  his  notions ;  more  free  in  his 
speech  ;  and  was  as  ready  for  loving  any 
pretty  woman,  yet  did  so  with  an  indiscrimi- 
nateness  which  the  other  never  afiected. 
Both  were  strict  friends,  as  they  had  proved 
in  many  a  time  of  need  in  the  hour  of  battle, 
and  both  were  alike  honorably  disposed,  and 
of  unblemished  reputations.  These  two 
young  gentlemen  rode  their  palfreys  like 
gallants,  putting  them  to  their  prettiest  paces 
one  against  the  other,  and  ever  and  anon 
turning  round  their  handsome  cheerful  faces, 
with  one  hand  holding  the  back  of  the  saddle, 
and  the  other  reigning  up  their  gamesome 
steeds  to  sec  how  their  sport  was  relished  by 
their  kinsman,  who  it  may  well  be  believed 
took  it  very  pleasantly,  for  he  was  ever  an 
encourager  of  any  innocent  pastime  that 
served  to  make  more  happy  the  passing 
hour. 

Behind  them,  a  little  way,  rode  Sir  Johan, 
the  chaplain,  who  would  sometimes  jog  on 
alongside  of  his  good  patron,  discoursing 
very  soberly  concerning  how  bountiful  Pro- 
vidence had  been  to  the  surrounding  country, 
seasoning  his  speech  with  such  learning  as 
did  not  savor  of  pedantry.  For  all  this  he 
was  not  indifferent  to  a  jest  on  any  proper 
occasion.  Right  well  could  he  laugh  at  one 
himself,  and  with  as  much  aptness  furnish 
one  for  his  company.  Indeed,  he  was  one  of 
those  rare  divines  who  take  upon  them  to 
think  that  whatsoever  good  thing  may  be 
met  with,  is  provided  for  our  especial  enjoy- 
ment, and  tliat  to  mislike  them  argueth  utter 


ignorance,  a  wonderful  lack  of  discretion, 
and  a  most  unwarrantable  and  absolute  in- 
gratitude. Therefore  Sir  Johan  was  never 
seen  with  a  long  face  and  a  miserable 
preaching.  His  orthodoxy  was  evidently  of 
a  most  comfortable  sort.  It  agreed  with  him 
exceedingly,  and  sat  on  his  round  cheeks 
after  a  fashion  that  must  have  been  wonder- 
fully enticing  to  all  wretched  fosterers  of 
schism  and  heresy.  Yet  was  he  no  Sir 
Nathaniel,  but  his  very  opposite.  It  is  true 
he  would  eat  and  drink  heartily  at  all  rea- 
sonable hours  ;  but  then  he  never  forgot  to 
give  as  hearty  thanks,  and  always  conduc- 
ted himself  on  such  occasions  with  a  credi- 
table decency  the  other  was  f{ir  from  show- 
ing. Nothing  was  like  the  vigor  of  his  piety 
after  he  had  enjoyed  himself  to  his  heart's 
content ;  and  the  eloquence,  the  learning, 
and  the  zealousness  with  which  he  would 
then  dilate  up9n  the  marvellous  goodness  of 
Providence,  carried  conviction  to  all  hearers. 
His  scholarship  would  have  become  a  bishop, 
though  he  was  nothing  but  a  poor  master  of 
arts  ;  nevertheless,  he  was  content  with  his 
station,  and  like  a  wise  man  enjoyed  to  the 
full  whatever  honest  pleasures  it  brought 
within  his  reach. 

By  his  side  usually  rode  Master  Peregrine, 
in  an  antique  suit  that  might  have  belonged 
to  his  grandfather  ;  in  his  figure  an  admi- 
rable contrast  to  the  full  proportions  of  the 
worthy  chaplain ;  and  he  talked  to  the  latter, 
or  to  the  boy  riding  between  them,  when  he 
could  not  get  the  other  as  a  listener,  as  if  he 
could  never  tire  at  it,  of  old  books  and  bal- 
lads, their  histories,  contents,  character, 
form  and  complexion.  Indeed,  he  seemed 
familiar  with  everything  that  had  been  prin- 
ted since  the  invention  of  tlie  art.  The  very 
talk  of  a  rare  book  would  put  him  into  a 
rapture,  and  a  ballad  that  was  not  to  be  met 
with  he  would  think  more  precious  than 
gold.  Then  he  would  speak  in  such  choice 
terms  of  Chaucer,  and  Gower,  and  Wyatt, 
and  Surrey,  and  a  many  others,  as  though 
none  could  be  of  so  great  account  ;  but 
when  he  got  to  the  speaking  of  ballads, 
nought  could  exceed  the  delectable  manner 
in  which  he  dilated  upon  them,  in  especial 
of  such  as  were  of  a  by-gone  age. 

William  Shakspeare,  as  he  rode  between 
these  two  last,  learned  more  of  books  than 
he  had  known  all  his  days  before.  Nothing 
could  be  so  pleasant  to  him  as  such  dis- 
course. He  listened  with  such  earnestness 
as  was  the  admiration  of  his  companions, 
and  asked  questions  so  to  the  purpose,  that 
they  were  never  indisposed  to  answer  him. 
More  and  more  delighted  was  he  to  hear 
such  famous  books  might  be  met  with  as 


T4 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAICSPEARE. 


those  notiible  classic  authors,  both  Greeks 
and  Iiatins,  Sir  Johan  spoke  so  learnedly  on, 
and  tlioso  exquisite  sweet  poets  and  roiinin- 
cers  Master  Peregrine  mentioned  so  lovingly  ; 
and  he  was  quite  in  a.n  ecstacy  when  they 
promised  to  make  him  better  acquainted  with 
their  worth  at  sucii  times  as  ho  chose  to 
visit  them  at  Sir  Marmaduke's  mansion.  So 
rode  he  along  in  his  neat  suit  oi"  frolic 
green,  as  much  at  his  ease  as  any  of  the 
company,  till  he  was  called  upon  to  furnish 
their  entertainment,  as  had  been  designed  ; 
and  then  unfolded  his  store  of  ballads,  and 
Master  Peregrine  assisted  him  with  such 
particulars  of  their  history  as  had  come  to 
his  knowledge,  that  all  allowed  so  proper  a 
companion  tor  a  journey  they  could  never 
have  met  with. 

On  they  proceeded  in  this  orderly  manner 
till  they  came  to  the  town  of  Long  Iching- 
ton,  some  seven  miles  distiwit,  v/here  my 
Lord  of  ijeicostcr  had  erected  a  tent  of  such 
capaciouriuess  and  grandeur,  never  was 
seen  the  like  ;  and  hero  it  was  intended  to 
give  her  Majesty  a  truly  magniticent  ban- 
quet, previous  to  her  departure  to  his  Lord- 
ship's famous  Castle  of  Kcnilworth  she 
was  coming  to  honor  with  a  visit.  Now  it 
should  be  known  to  all,  the  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter was  in  especial  favor  of  the  Queen,  his 
mistress.  No  man  more  so ;  and  as  her 
Majesty  in  one  of  her  progresses  at  tliat 
time,  had  given  him  assurance  she  would  do 
him  such  honor  as  to  make  his  castle  her 
residence  for  some  little  while,  he  had  busied 
himself  with  prodigious  expenses  to  make 
becoming  preparations.  This  visit  of  the 
Queen  engrossed  tlie  public  talk,  and  as  a 
knowledge  of  tlie  splendor  of  its  accompani- 
ment:? got  abroad,  the  inhabitants  of  the  ad- 
jacent neighborhood  became  the  more  im- 
patient to  behold  them.  As  for  my  Lord  of 
Leicester,  he  was  diversely  reported ;  some 
asserting  there  was  not  his  like  for*  a  prodi- 
gal dis])osition ;  and  others,  thougli  they 
cautiously  mentioned  the  matter,  spoke  of 
hitn  as  one  who  held  no  discipline  over  liis 
passions,  save  before  those  who  could  punish 
him  for  his  misdoings  ;  and  that  he  scrupled 
not  to  use  his  great  power  to  the  furthering 
of  any  great  wickedness  he  had  a  mind  to. 

Be  tliis  as  it  may,  our  young  traveller  and 
his  worshipful  company,  after  seeing  all  at 
tills  town  they  could  get  a  siglit  of,  departed 
towards  the  evening,  with  her  Majesty  and 
an  immense  concourse  of  her  royal  subjects, 
to  the  Castle  of  Kenilworth.  There,  at  her 
first  entrance,  was  beheld  a  lloating  island 
on  a  pool,  made  Ijright  witii  a  many  torches, 
whereon  sat  the  lady  uf  the  lake  with  two 
nymphs,  who,  in  very  choice  verse,  gave  her 


Highness  a  famous  account  of  the  history 
of  that  building  and  its  owners.  Clo.se  by 
was  a  Triton  riding  on  a  mermaid,  at  least 
some  eighteen  feet  in  length,  and  also  Arion 
on  a  dolphin.  The  Queen  passed  over  a 
stately  bridge,  in  the  base  court,  on  each 
side  of  whicli,  upon  tall  columns,  were  placed 
a  store  of  all  manner  of  delectable  gifts,  sup- 
posed to  come  from  the  Gods,  such  as  a 
cage  of  wild-fowl  from  Sylvanus,  sundry 
sorts  of  fruits  from  Pomona,  great  heaps  of 
corn  from  Ceres,  vessels  of  choice  wine  from 
Bacchus,  divers  kinds  of  sea-tish  from  Nep- 
tune, warlike  appointments  from  Mars,  and 
instruments  of  music  from  Phcebus  :  which 
rare  conceit  was  nmch  relished  of  all,  and 
shouts  rent  the  air  as  her  Highness  took 
note  of  them. 

All  this  afforded  wonderful  entertainment 
to  William  Shakspeare  ;  but  liis  marvel  be- 
came the  greater,  when  he  beheld  the  infi- 
nite variety  of  such  things  which  met  liim 
at  every  turn.  He  couki  never  tire  of  ad- 
miring the  rare  beauty  of  that  .stately  castle 
carved  out  of  the  hard  quarry,  the  magnifi- 
cence of  such  of  the  chambers  as  his  com- 
panions got  him  access  to  ;  and  the  ravish- 
ing beauty  of  the  garden,  witli  its  bovvers, 
alleys,  obelisks,  spheres,  white  bears,  with 
the  ragged  staff,  the  armorial  bearings  of  the 
lordly  owner,  exquisite  flowers,  and  deli 
cious  fruits,  that  met  him  go  which  way  he 
would.  Again  was  he  in  a  great  pleasure 
at  sight  of  a  cage  of  some  twenty  feet,  the 
outside  garnished  with  all  manner  of  shining 
stones,  the  inside  decked  with  fresh  holly 
trees,  and  furnished  with  cavernous  places, 
where  a  multitudinous  collection  of  foreign 
birds  of  all  parts  had  been  collected  ;  and, 
also,  at  beholding  the  grand  fountain  in 
fashion  of  a  colunni  made  of  two  athelets, 
back  to  back,  supporting  a  huge  bowl,  which 
by  means  of  certiin  pipes,  did  distil  con- 
tniual  streams  of  water  running,  where  a 
plenty  of  lively  fishes  were  disporting  of 
themselves,  along  side  of  which  were  Nep- 
tune, with  his  trident  and  sea-horses ; 
Thetis,  in  her  chariot  and  dolphins  ;  Triton, 
in  com])any  with  his  fishes  ;  I'roteus,  herd- 
ing of  his  sea  bulls  ;  and  other  of  the  like 
famous  emblems,  set  in  eight  difterent  com- 
partments, with  admirable  sculpture  ot 
waves,  shells,  and  huge  monsters  of  the 
deej),  vv'ith  the  ragged  stifi'  in  fair  white 
marble  at  top,  and  gates  of  massy  silver  for 
entrance. 

But  the  sports  that  were  then  and  Uiere 
enacted  for  the  Queen's  pastime,  none 
could  have  so  relished  as  did  he.  especially 
the  chase  with  the  savage  man,  clad  in  ivy, 
and  his  company  of  satyrs ;  the  bear-bait- 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


75 


ings  and  the  fire-  works,  the  Itahan  tumblers 
the  festival  of  the  brideale,  and  the  games 
of  running  at  the  quintain  and  morrice  danc- 
ing. Beside  which,  to  his  great  diversion, 
he  witnessed  the  Coventry  men  playing  the 
old  play  of  Hock  Tuesday,  representing  in 
a  sort  of  tilting  match,  and  in  dumb  sliow, 
the  defeat  of  the  Danes  by  the  English,  in 
the  time  of  King  Etheldred,  the  which  so 
pleased  her  Majesty,  that  she  bestowed  on 
the  players  two  bucks,  to  make  good  cheer 
with,  and  five  marks  in  money,  to  garnish 
the  feast ;  and  after  supper,  the  same  even- 
ing, he  was  taken  into  the  castle,  to  see  a 
play  of  a  higher  sort  played  by  men  better 
approved  in  their  art,  that  was  then  writ, 
and  played  for  her  Majesty's  particular  delec- 
tation ;  and  though  it  lasted  two  long  hours, 
he  was  so  enamored  of  the  manner  in  which 
it  was  set  forth,  lie  would  have  been  glad 
enough  to  have  stayed  all  night,  had  they 
not  come  to  an  ending. 

All  this,  and  wonderful  deal  more  of 
splendor,  pageantry,  and  pastime,  was  con- 
tinued in  infinite  variety  for  nineteen  days, 
with  such  prodigal  feasting  and  rejoicing  as 
none  had  previously  been  acquainted  with ; 
and  the  entire  of  it  good  Sir  Marmaduke 
took  care  his  young  companion  should  see, 
during  which  he  had  him  as  well  lodged, 
and  as  carefully  provided,  as  if  he  had  been 
his  own  son,  he  was  so  well  pleased  with 
him;  and  either  he.  Master  Peregrine  or 
Sir  Johan,  explained  the  character  and  pur- 
port of  such  things  as  he  knew  not  of,  so 
that  he  reaped  both  j^leasure  and  profit 
wherever  he  went.  Every  thing  v.-as  to 
him  so  new  and  strange,  that  he  w^is  kept 
in  a  continual  state  of  pleasurable  excite- 
ment he  had  never  known  all  his  life  before 
— even  the  choice  excellence  of  Gammer 
Gurton's  Needle  was  eclipsed  by  the  singu- 
lar fine  recreation  he  was  then  enjoying. 

It  did  sometimes  happen  that  although  he 
strove  all  he  could  to  keep  with  his  com- 
pany, they  would  get  separated  in  the  throng, 
and  then  he  would  have  a  great  to  do  to  find 
them  again ;  and  once  after  the  old  knight 
had  promised  he  would  take  him  to  see  her 
Majesty,  of  whom  he  had  not  as  yet  got  a 
sight,  because  of  the  crowd  of  nobles  that 
were  ever  around  her,  a  sudden  press  of 
persons  going  in  a  contrary  direction  set 
them  so  far  asunder,  that  in  a  few  minutes 
the  boy  found  himself  in  a  place  where  there 
were  many  turnings,  of  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  say  whicli  might  be  the  one  his 
friends  had  taken.  Believing  he  was  not 
like  to  gain  the  required  knowledge  by  ask- 
ing, where  such  a  multitude  of  strange  per- 
sons were  assembled,  he  chose  a  path  with 


the  determination  of  seeking  all  ways  till  he 
found  the  right  one.  He  wandered  up  and 
down  the  green  allies,  greatly  admiring  the 
deliciously  various  trees,  bedecked  with 
apples,  pears,  and  ripe  cherries,  the  beds  of 
blushing  strawberries,  and  the  plots  of  fra- 
grant herbs  and  flowers,  which  cast  beauty 
and  sweetness  wherever  he  walked,  yet  of 
his  friends  saw  he  not  the  slightest  sign  ; 
indeed,  he  had  gone  so  far  he  at  last  met 
with  no  person  of  any  kind.  Getting  to  be 
somewhat  bewildered  at  searching  so  long 
with  such  small  profit,  upon  turning  round 
a  corner  he  came  suddenly  upon  a  lady  and 
gentleman,  with  a  grand  company  at  some 
distance  beliind.  The  gentleman  was  most 
gorgeously  apparelled.  Nothing  could  be  so 
costly  as  the  rich  satin  embroidered  with 
gold  and  jewels  that  formed  his  cloak,  save 
the  delicate  fabric  of  his  doublet,  wherein 
the  same  glorious  magnificence  was  appa- 
rent. A  massy  gold  chain  of  a  curious 
fashion,  hung  over  his  breast — gems  of 
price  glittered  on  the  handle  of  his  dagger 
— his  sword  seemed  wrought  with  the  like 
preciousness — his  hose  were  of  the  delicat- 
est  pink  silk,  woven  with  silver  threads  all 
over  the  upper  part  of  the  leg  where  they 
joined  the  trunks,  which  were  of  crimson 
and  orange  color  prettily  slashed  and  richly 
embroidered  like  the  sleeves  of  tlie  doublet. 
The  rest  of  his  appointments  corresponded 
with  what  hath  been  already  described,  and 
being  of  a  fine  make  and  somewhat  hand- 
some countenance,  they  became  him  infi- 
nitely. He  appeared  to  be  playing  the  gal- 
lant to  his  fair  companion,  for  there  was  an 
air  of  exceeding  deep  homage  and  admira- 
tion in  the  looks  with  Vhich  he  regarded 
her. 

The  lady  was  attired  in  a  full  robe  of 
white  satin  ornamented  with  rosettes  in 
great  number, — in  the  midst  of  which  was 
a  pearl  in  every  one, — trimmed  with  the 
richest  lace.  A  nift'  of  lace  still  more  costly 
lay  in  folds  upon  her  neck,  surmounted  by 
wings  of  stifl^ened  lawn,  set  all  round  with 
pearls.  Her  hair  was  combed  from  the 
forehead,  and  pearls  of  a  very  large  size  set 
in  it,  with  other  pearls  equally  precious ; 
but  pearls  appeared  to  be  a  favorite  orna- 
ment, for  besides  what  have  been  mentioned, 
they  were  in  her  ears, — they  were  round  her  *^ 
neck,  and  upon  her  bosom, — a  long  string 
of  them  hung  down  to  her  stomacher, — and 
tliey  were  worked  into  the  material  of  her 
dress  wherever  there  was  place  for  them. 
She  was  of  a  fair  complexion,  well  featured, 
though  she  could  not  be  called  in  her  youth, 
of  an  agreeable  aspect,  and  of  an  excellent 
stately  deportment,  and  appeared  to  be  hs- 


76 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


tening  with  singular  satisfaction  to  what 
fell  from  the  gallant  at  her  side. 

"  What  ho,  my  young  master,  what  scek- 
est  thou  ?"  exclaimed  she,  upon  noticing  of 
William  Shakspcare  standing  looking  at  the 
two,  as  if  so  dazzled  with  the  hrave  show 
they  made,  he  knew  not  at  first  whether  to 
turn  back  or  go  on  ;  but  believing  them  to 
be  persons  of  worship,  had  taken  off  his  hat, 
and  stood  respectfully  to  let  them  pass. 

"  An'  it  please  you  I  have  lost  my  way," 
cried  he.  "  1  have  been  forced  to  part  from 
my  friends,  by  reason  of  the  great  crowd, 
and  should  I  not  overtake  them  soon,  per- 
chance I  may  miss  seeing  the  Queen,  the 
which  famous  sight  they  were  proceeding  to 
when  I  was  forced  away  from  them." 

"  Hast  never  seen  the  Queen  ?"  inquired 
the  lady  seemingly  charmed  with  the  in- 
genuousness of  the;  boy's  manner. 

"  No,  indeed,  I  have  not,  by  reason  of  the 
throng  about  her,"  answered  he.  "  But  I 
should  be  right  glad  to  see  her,  for  never 
yet  have  I  seen  a  Queen  of  any  kind,  and  I 
have  heard  say  our  Queen  Elizabeth  is  a 
most  gracious  lady."  At  hearing  this  the 
lady  looked  at  her  companion,  and  he  at  her 
with  a  peculiar  smile,  doubtless  of  some 
pleasant  manner. 

"And  suppose  I  show  thee  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, my  little  master,  what  wouldst  say  to 
her  ?"  asked  she. 

"  Nay,  I  would  say  naught  of  mine  own 
accord,"  said  the  other,  "  as  methinks  it 
might  savor  of  a  too  great  boldness  in  me  ; 
but  asked  she  of  me  any  question,  I  would 
with  all  proper  courtesy  answer  as  T  best 
could, — and  doubt  not  1  would  thank  you 
heartily  for  affording  me  so  brave  a  sight." 

'•  By  my  troth,  well  said !"  exclaimed  the 
lady,  as  if  in  an  excellent  satisfaction. 
"  What  say  you,  my  Lord  of  Leicester,  shall 
we  show  this  youngster,  that  speaks  so  pret- 
tily, what  he  has  such  huge  desire  to  see '.'" 
added  she,  turning  with  an  arch  look  to  her 
gallant. 

"  O'  my  life,  to  my  thinking  he  deserveth 
no  less,"  replied  the  nobleman. 

"  An'  it  please  you,"  said  William  Shak- 
speare  respectfully,  "  it  seemeth  to  me  you 
must  needs  be  the  Queen  herself!" 

"H;i,  young  sir!  and  why  dost  fancy 
that  ?"  exclaimed  Queen  Elizabeth,  for  as 
the  reader  may  readily  believe  it  was  no 
other. 

"Because  you  have  so  brave  an  appear- 
ance with  you,"  answered  he,  "and  look  so 
gracious  withal.  Indeed,  an'  you  are  not 
her  in  truth,  1  should  be  well  pleased  and 
you  were,  for  never  saw  I  so  excellent  sweet 
a  lady." 


"  Indeed  !  But  thou  playest  the  courtier 
betimes,  my  pretty  master!"  cried  her  ma- 
jesty in  an  admirable  good  humor. 

"  And  the  varlet  doth  it  so  gracefully  !" 
added  my  Lord  of  Leicester,  who  seemed  to 
be  as  much  taken  with  him  as  was  his  royal 
mistress. 

"  Here  is  a  remembrance  for  thee,"  said 
the  queen,  giving  him  a  gold  piece  out  of 
her  purse ;  "  I  do  applaud  thy  Avit  in  having 
made  so  notable  a  discovery ;  and  doubt  not, 
if  thou  goest  on  as  well  as  thou  hast  com- 
menced, thou  and  fortune  will  shake  hands 
anon  !" 

Then  calling  to  some  of  those  her  officers 
who  were  behind  her,  her  majesty  gave  the 
boy  to  thorn  with  strict  charge  to  seek  out 
his  friends,  and  deliver  him  to  them  safely ; 
but  it  so  happened  he  had  not  proceeded  far 
in  such  custody,  when  he  met  them  ;  and 
all  were  in  some  marvel  to  hear  what 
strange  adventure  he  had  fallen  into. 

It  was  getting  towards  eve  of  the  same 
day,  when  two  persons  stood  close  under  the 
terrace  that  lay  along  the  castle.  One  was 
closely  muffled  up,  and  endeavoring  all  he 
could  to  hide  his  face  and  person  from  ob- 
senation,  and  he  kept  continually  turning 
of  his  eyes  in  every  direction  to  note  if  any 
were  watching,  whilst  he  spoke  in  a  low 
voice  to  his  companion.  The  other  was  also 
cloaked,  but  seemed  more  intent  upon  heark- 
ening to  the  discourse  of  his  associate  than 
to  any  other  matter. 

"  Art  sure  of  her  person  ?"  asked  tlie  first 
in  a  low  whisper. 

"  1  marked  her  well,  my  lord,"  answered 
the  other  in  the  same  subdued  voice ;  "  O' 
my  life,  never  saw  I  so  exquisite  fair  a  crea- 
ture !" 

"  Indeed  she  is  of  ravishing  perfections — 
a  very  angel  in  the  bud  !"  exclaimed  his 
companion  in  a  fervent  ecstacy.  "  Fresh  in 
j'outh  and  perfect  in  beauty  !  in  brief.  I  have 
never  seen  her  peer  in  all  my  experience. 
Do  as  I  would  have  thee,  thy  fortune's 
made." 

"  Count  upon  her  as  your  own,  my  good 
lord." 

"  But  be  cautious,  on  your  life." 

"  Be  assured,  in  subtlety  I  will  beat  tlie 
cunningest  fox  that  ever  mbbod  hen-roost." 

"  Away !  I  cainiot  stay  another  minute, 
or  my  absence  will  be  nuirked."  Where- 
upon both  glided  different  ways  in  the  sha- 
dow, and  wore  no  more  visible. 

Among  the  company  the  fiime  of  these 
princely  pleasures  had  attracted  to  Kenil- 
worth,  were  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  his  good 
dame,  who  hatl  brought  with  them,  as  an  at 
tendant  to  the  latter,  no  otlier  than  theii 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


77 


pretty  foundling,  the  gentle  Mabel,  now 
grown  to  be  that  indefinable  delicate  exam- 
ple of  feminine  graces  that  lieth  betwixt  girl- 
hood and  womanhood.  Under  the  careful 
instruction  of  her  patroness,  she  had  been 
well  schooled  in  all  such  learning  as  was 
proper  for  a  young  person  of  such  humble 
fortunes ;  but  of  her  own  natural  well-dis- 
posedness  she  acquired  such  wisdom  as 
would  have  have  fitted  her  had  she  come  of 
the  noblest  families.  Of  lier  parents  none 
knew  a  syllable  ;  and  Dame  Lucy  fancying 
none  but  mean  persons  could  behave  so 
meanly  as  to  desert  their  child,  had  brought 
her  up  in  such  fashion  as  showed  she  consid- 
ered her  origin  to  be  of  tlio  humblest,  intend- 
ing her  for  a  servant,  and  ever  attempting 
to  impress  on  her  mind  a  humility  corre- 
sponding with  one  meant  for  so  pitiful  a  con- 
dition. However,  having  resolved  she  should 
go  to  Kenilworth  in  their  company  the  good 
Dame  had  taken  care  her  attire  should  be  of 
a  better  sort  than  what  she  usually  wore, 
never  failing  the  whilst  she  gave  them  for 
her  wearing,  to  accompany  them  with  a  no- 
table fine  homily  upon  the  wickedness  of 
poor  girls  seeking  to  put  on  them  such  ap- 
parelling as  was  above  their  station. 

Mabel  was  that  evening  standing  Iiotween 
her  elderly  companions  beholding  the  lire- 
works.  There  was  a  huge  crowd  a  little 
way  before  her.  A  strange  gallant  very 
courteously  directed  the  attention  of  the 
knight  andl  his  lady  to  what  was  worthiest 
of  notice,  and  in  a  very  friendly  manner  gave 
them  intelligence  of  what  was  going  to  be 
done,  at  what  cost  it  had  been  made,  and  by 
whose  skilfulness  it  was  constructed;  to  the 
which,  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  in  especial,  gave 
famous  attention,  entering  cheerfully  into 
the  discourse,  and  striving  to  appear  as  fa- 
miliar with  the  matter  as  his  instructor. 

"  I  warrant  you  !"  exclaimed  he ;  "  me- 
thinks  I  ought  to  know  something  of  such 
things.  Ay,  marry,  I  have  been  as  famiUar 
with  them  as  am  I  with  my  hand." 

"  As  I  live,  I  took  you  to  be  some  learned 
gentleman  when  I  had  first  sight  of  you," 
cried  the  stranger,  with  an  appearance  of 
monstrous  respect ;  "  you  have  it  in  your 
face, sir;  indeed  your  look  savoreth  so  much 
of  sagacity  l;hat  none  can  mistake  it.  Doubt- 
less you  are  some  great  Doctor  ?" 

"  O'  my  word,  but  a  simple  knight  o'  the 
shire,  good  sir,"  replied  the  other  in  a  fa- 
mous satisfaction. 

"  And  a  justice  of  peace,  Sir  Thomas," 
added  Dame  Lucy,  anxious  her  husband's 
greatness  should  not  be  imperfectly  known. 

"  I  would  have  sworn  it !"  exclaimed  their 
companion. 


"  By'r  Lady  now,  is  it  so  visible  ?"  cried 
the  other,  as  much  astonished  as  gratified. 

"  But,  as  I  was  about  saying,  when  I  was 
at  college  I  was  wonderfully  given  to  the 
study  of  chemicals  and  alchemy  ;  ay,  to  such 
extreme  that  I  make  no  manner  of  doubt  I 
should  have  got  at  the  philosoplior's  stone 
had  I  kept  at  my  experiments  long  enough." 

"  Of  that  I  am  assured,"  observed  the 
stranger. 

"  But  my  chief  pleasure  was  in  the  mak- 
ing of  strange  fires  that  would  burn  of  all 
colors,"  continued  the  knight.  "These  I 
learned  of  a  famous  clerk,  who  was  study- 
ing chemicals,  and  was  considered  more  apt 
at  it  than  any  of  his  time." 

"  A  very  Friar  Bacon,  doubtless,  Sir 
Thomas,"  said  his  companion. 

"  Marry,  yes,  that  was  he,"  replied  the 
justice. 

"  Now,  I  was  ever  a  letting  off  my  fires, 
to  the  terror  of  all  simple  people,  who  could 
not  fancy  they  were  of  this  world,  and  mar- 
vellous proper  sport  had  I  on  such  occasions  ; 
for,  as  I  live,  I  was  such  a  fellow  at  tricks  I 
had  not  my  match,  go  where  I  would." 

"  I  would  I  had  known  you  then ;  I  was 
just  such  another,"  exclaimed  the  stranger, 
very  merrily. 

"  Ay,  it  would  have  done  your  heart  good 
to  have  seen  the  tricks  I  have  played,"  con- 
tinued Sir  Thomas,  laughing  with  exceed- 
ing heartiness.  '■  I  have  been  as  wild  a  colt 
as  ever  broke  his  tether,  I  promise  you." 

"  No,  indeed,  have  you  ?"  cried  the  other, 
joining  in  his  companion's  mirth  to  some 
excess. 

"  By  cock  and  pye,  yes ;  and  among  the 
bona  robas  too,"  added  he,  in  a  voice  and 
manner  meant  to  be  still  more  facetious,  as 
he  gave  his  companion  a  sly  nudge  at  the 
elbow. 

"  Odds  my  life.  Sir  Thomas  !"  exclaimed 
the  stranger,  apparently  increasing  the 
greatness  of  his  humor,  "  you  v.'ere  a  fit 
companion  for  the  Sophy." 

"  I  was  as  familiar  with  them  all  as  though 
we  had  been  cousins,"  added  the  knight,  af- 
ter the  same  fashion.  "  Indeed  I  was  so 
partial  to  these  pretty  ones,  that  if  any  my 
fellows  said,  '  Yonder  is  a  kirtle,'  ofl"  would 
I  start  on  the  instant,  though  I  had  a  mile  to 
run." 

"  Fie,  fie.  Sir  Thomas  !"  exclaimed  Dame 
Lucy,  good  humoredly  ;  then  turning  to  the 
stranger  with  a  monstrous  innocent  sort  ot 
countenance,  added,  '•  Think  not  so  ill  ot 
him,  good  sir,  I  pray  you,  for  I  have  known 
him  this  thirty  year  and  more,  and  he  hath 
never  done  ought  of  the  kind,  I'll  warrant." 

"  I  doubt  it  not,  believe  me,"  replied  the 


•78 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


other,  with  more  sincerity  than  he  chose 
should  be  known.  "  But  if  it  please  you  to 
come  a  little  more  to  this  side,"  said  he, 
with  exceeding  courteousness,  "  You  shall 
behold  what  is  far  beyond  what  you  have 
already  seen." 

"  We  will,  and  thank  you,"  answered  Sir 
Thomas,  eagerly,  and  he  with  Dame  Lucy, 
presently  m.oved  in  that  direction. 

In  the  meanwhile,  another  courteous  gen- 
tleman was  paying  similar  attentions  to  the 
fair  Mabel,  who  received  them  in  a  thank- 
ful spirit,  as  she  ever  did  any  appearance  of 
kindness  from  another.  He  told  her  the 
wonders  of  the  castle — the  great  power  and 
princely  magnilicence  of  the  possessor — 
what  famous  noble  lords  and  fair  ladies  were 
of  the  company,  and  the  unparalleled  pre- 
ciousness  of  the  jeweled  silks  and  velvets 
that  were  of  their  wearing;  and  he  took 
care  to  season  all  with  some  delicate  flat- 
tery or  another,  well  suited  to  win  the  ear 
of  one  of  her  youth  and  ine.xperience. 

"  Indeed  these  nobles  have  a  fine  time  of 
it,  methinks,"  said  her  companion.  "  They 
have  everything  that  heart  can  wish  for,  at 
their  command  ;  and  any  fair  creature  who 
is  so  fortunate  as  to  win  the  love  of  such, 
cannot  help  knowing  that  extreme  happi- 
ness few  have  any  notion  of.  Dost  not 
tliink  women  so  fortunate  are  greatly  to  be 
envied,  sv/eetest  ?" 

"  Doubtless,  honorable  sir,  if  they  be 
worthy,"  replied  Mabel. 

"  Crowds  of  servants  come  at  their  com- 
mand," continued  the  stranger,  more  earn- 
estly. "  Whatever  they  can  fancy,  let  it  be 
of  ever  such  cost,  is  brought  to  them  ere 
they  can  well  say  they  want  it — the  exquis- 
itest  sweet  music  fills  the  air  around  them 
day  and  night — all  manner  of  ravishing  per- 
fumes of  flowers  and  herbs  and  odoriferous 
gums,  enrich  the  atmosphere  they  breathe  ; 
and  he  whose  princely  nature  they  have  so 
bound  in  their  chains  as  to  hold  him  prison- 
er to  their  admirable  lustrous  eyes,  is  ever 
at  their  will,  glorifying  them  with  his  |)raise, 
deifying  them  with  his  devotion,  and  mak- 
ing every  hour  of  their  lives  redolent  with 
the  unutterable  ecstacies  of  his  sovereign 
and  most  absolute  affections.  Dost  not 
think  such  women  infinitely  tbrtunate?" 

"  I  know  not  how  they  could  help  being 
so,  were  they  well  disposed,"  answered  the 
foundling. 

"  Just  so,  sweetest  one,"  observed  the 
gallant.  "  Now,  supposing  such  thing  as 
this  should  happen ; — some  such  noble  per- 
son as  1  have  described — the  ccjual  of  the 
proudest — the  master  of  tlie  wealthiest,  get- 
ting sight  of  your  most  absolute  graces — " 


"  What,  I  ?"  exclaimed  Mabel,  in  a  fa- 
mous astonishment. 

"  And  straightway  falling  enamored  of 
the  bright  perfections  of  your  spotless  na- 
ture," continued  he  ;  '*  his  princely  heart 
thrilling  with  thedivinest  sensations,  should 
be  in  a  feverish  impatience  to  cast  his  great- 
ness at  your  feet,  and  all  out  of  love  for 
such  inestimable  choice  beauty  of  mind  and 
feature,  should  be  ready  to  fall  out  with  life, 
if  by  chance  you  deny  him  the  happiness  he 
would  find  in  your  inestimable   company." 

"  Surely,  you  are  jesting,  good  sir,"  ob- 
served his  fair  companion.  '■  I  know  not  of 
such  things  as  you  speak  of.  Indeed,  I  am 
so  humble  a  person,  none  such  as  you  have 
said,  would  ever  trouble  themselves  about 
me  for  a  single  moment ;  nevertheless  I 
thank  you  kindly  for  your  good  opinion  of 
me,  and  should  bo  right  glad  to  possess  any 
merit  that  would  make  me  deserve  it  better 
than  I  do." 

"  That  cannot  be,  o'  my  life,  excellent 
creature  ?"  replied  the  gallant,  with  a  seem- 
ing fer\-or.  "  'Tis  your  too  great  modesty 
that  preventeth  you  from  seeing  your  own 
notable  divine  excellencies." 

"  Indeed  you  think  too  well  of  me — I  have 
no  sign  of  any  such  thing,"  said  Mabel ; 
her  truly  unassuming  nature  shnnking  from 
the  flattery ;  then  looking  round,  ior  the 
first  time  observed  that  Sir  Thomas  and 
Dame  Lucy  were  nowhere  near  her. — 
"  Alack  I  where  can  they  have  gone  !"  ex- 
claimed she,  in  some  to  do.  "  They  will  be 
exceeding  angry  I  took  not  better  heed  to 
keep  close  to  them  wherever  tliey  went,  as 
they  told  me." 

"  Speak  you  of  your  friends,  sweetest  ?" 
inquired  the  other,  in  an  indifferent  manner. 
"  I  saw  them  myself  not  a  moment  since, 
moving  round  this  way.  If  you  will  allow 
of  my  protection,  I  will  take  care  you  join 
them  .so  soon  you  shall  not  be  missed  at  all." 

"  I  should  be  loth  to  put  you  to  such  trou- 
ble on  my  account,  I  thank  you  heartily," 
answered  his  fair  companion,  "  I  will  seek 
them  myself  the  way  you  have  kindly  told 
me."  Thereupon,  she  moved  in  that  di- 
rection, the  gallant  keeping  at  her  side,  but 
not  a  sign  of  the  knight  or  hi^  good  dame 
could  they  see. 

"  Woe  is  me,  I  have  lost  all  sight  of  them !" 
cried  Mabel,  now  in  no  little  trouble  of  mind. 
"  How  heedless  I  must  have  been  to  have 
let  them  go  away  without  my  knowing  it." 

"  Surely  there  they  are  yonder  !"  exclaim- 
ed the  stranger,  pointing  to  two  figures  dim- 
ly discerned  at  the  top  of  one  of  the  green 
alleys,  walking  slowly  away. 

'•  Indeed  tliey  have  some  likeness  to  tliem," 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


79 


she  replied,  yet  seeming  to  hesitate  about 
their  identity. 

"  They  cannot  be  any  otlier,  I  would  swear 
it,"  said  the  gallant,  with  monstrous  earnest- 
ness ;  "  see  you  not  the  knight's  very  doub- 
let ?  nay,  an'  you  do  not  make  some  speed, 
they  will  turn  the  corner,  and  mayhap  you 
may  lose  sight  of  them  altogether.'  There- 
upon, MabeX  without  another  v/ord,  tripped 
lightly  along  the  path — her  companion  still 
keeping  close  to  her  side — and  when  they 
got  to  the  top  they  beheld  the  two  persons 
they  had  seen  turning  round  a  corner  into 
an  alley  beyond  ;  at  the  sight  of  which  the 
poor  foundling  started  off  again  in  great 
anxiety  to  overtake  them,  but  with  no  better 
success  ;  for  however  fast  she  ran,  as  she 
got  to  the  end  of  one  path,  the  figures  were 
seen  turning  round  at  the  end  of  another, 
and  so  it  continued  for  such  a  time  she  would 
liave  given  up  the  pursuit  in  despair,  had 
not  the  gallant  kept  encouraging  her  to  pro- 
ceed. At  last,  when  she  was  nigh  exhaust- 
ed with  her  exertions,  and  in  extreme  dis- 
comfort, because  now  she  saw  no  appear- 
ance whatever  of  those  she  took  to  be  the 
knight  and  his  lady,  on  a  sudden  she  heard 
a  loud  whistle  behind  her,  that  appeared  to 
come  from  her  companion — the  which  it  did 
beyond  all  contradiction,  for  he  had  that  mo- 
ment put  a  whistle  to  his  mouth — and  ere 
she  could  think  what  was  the  meaning  of 
such  strange  behavior,  two  or  three  stout 
fellows  rushed  from  a  grove  of  trees  close  at 
hand,  and  despite  of  a  sharp  scream  she 
gave,  threw  a  large  cloak  over  her,  in  the 
which  she  was  muffled  up  in  a  minute,  and 
borne  helplessly  along. 

"  Never  was  hawk  lured  so  cleverly," 
said  the  gallant,  in  evident  gratification  at 
the  complete  success  of  his  villainous 
scheme. 

"  She  is  now  hooded,  and  must  to  her 
mews  with  what  speed  we  can.  Shght !" 
here  sharply  exclaimed  he,  seemingly  in  a 
very  absolute  vexation  ;  "  what  pestilent  in- 
terruption is  this  ?  But  they  are  but  two, 
so  haste,  for  your  lives,  we  can  give  them 
work  enough,  prove  they  for  meddling." 

It  so  happened  that  Sir  Valentine  and  his 
friend  were  .together  in  an  adjoining  walk, 
when  they  heard  the  whistle,  and  the  scream 
following  close  upon  it ;  their  rapiers  were 
out  in  an  instant,  and  they  were  just  in  time 
to  see  a  female  mutlled  up  and  borne  away. 
This  brought  them  to  the  spot  presently. — 
Two  of  the  villains  carried  Mabel,  and  were 
making  off,  whilst  their  companions  were 
engaged  with  the  young  knights,  who  were 
using  their  weapons  briskly  with  each  an 
opponent ;  but  suddenly  coming  to  the  rest 


of  Sir  Valentine's  party,  led  by  Sir  Marma- 
duko,  who  had  plucked  out  his  trusty  ra- 
pier, tiie  moment  he  heard  the  clashing  of 
blades,  his  imposing  appearance  struck  a 
panic  amongst  them.  The  two  fellows 
dropped  their  burthen,  without  caring  to 
make  his  acquaintance,  and,  with  the  rest, 
made  oft' in  different  directions. 

It  was  difficult  to  say  which  was  most  af- 
fected with  the   unusual  loveliness  of  the 
gentle  Mabel,  Sir  Valentine  or  Sir  Reginald, 
as  they  disengaged  her  from  her  unwelcome 
covering,  whilst  the  others  assured  her  of 
her  perfect  safety.     They  were  dumb  with 
excess  of  admiration.     Nothing  they  had 
seen  or  imagined  came  in  any  way  like  the 
exquisite  innocency  and  faultless  loveliness 
of  her  features.     She  seemed  to  them  to  be 
some  fair  spirit  of  a  better  world,  such  as 
ancient  poets  have  described  haunting  clear 
streams  and  mossy  caves,  and  the  deep  hol- 
lows of  the  emerald  woods,  by  such  names  as 
sylphs,  dryades,  and  the  like.     Woman  she 
could  scarce  be  styled,  she  looked  so  young, 
and  yet  each  was  loath  she  should  be  called 
any  other  name,  believing  nothing  was  so 
worthy  of  love  and  reverence.     As  for  the 
poor  foundling,  she  was  in  some  confusion 
to  be  so  gazed  upon  by  strangers  ;  she  had 
not  yet  recovered  from  the  surprise  and  fear 
she  had  been  put  to  by  the  treachery  of  her 
late   companion,   and  gazed  about  her,  the 
prettiest  picture  of  amazement  that  had  ever 
been  witnessed.  Even  the  antiquarian  stared 
through  his  spectacles  at  her  so  earnestly  as 
he  had  at  the  ancientest  ballad  that   had 
fallen  into  his  hahds ;  and  William  Shak- 
speare,  boy  as  he  was,  appeared  as  though 
there  was  a  power  in  her  admirable  beauty 
he  felt  all  through  his  nature,  yet  with  a 
confused  sense  of  its  particular  meaning, 
that  would  take  no  definite  interpretation. 
It  is   here   only  necessary  to  add  that  the 
young  and  graceful  creature  found  every 
possible  attention  and  respect  from  those  in 
whose  company  she  had  so  fortunately  fallen. 
A  search  was  quickly  commenced  for  the 
knight  and  his  lady,  and  after  some  trouble, 
taken  of  the  young  knights  as  the  sweetest 
pleasure  they  had  ever  enjoyed,  she  was  re- 
stored to  them,  but  not  without  such  thanks 
from  her,  as,  for  the  gentle,  sweet  gracious- 
ness  with  which  they  were  accompanied, 
never  left  their  memories  from  that  time  for- 
ward.    As  for  William  Shakspeare,  he  re- 
turned to  his  loving  parents,  surprising  them 
greatly  with  the  goodly  store  of  gifts  he 
would  needs  pour   into   his  mother's  lap, 
which  had  been  bestowed  upon  him  by  his 
friends  ;  but  putting  them  in  a  still  greater 
wonder  at  his  marvellous  relations  of  what 


80 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHiVKSPEARE. 


strange  adventures  he  had  had,  and  famous 
sights  he  liad  beheld,  since  he  had  been 
away. 


CHAPTER  XL 

His  browny  locks  did  hang  in  crooked  curls, 

And  every  light  occasion  of  the  wind 

Upon  his  lips  their  silken  parcels  hurls. 

His  qualities  were  beauteous  as  his  form. 

For  niaidcn-tongued  he  was  and  tlierefore  free. 

SlIAKSFEAKE. 

For  him  wns  lever  han  at  his  beddes  hed 
A  twenty  bokcs,  clothed  in  black  or  red. 
Of  Aristotle,  and  his  philosophic. 
Than  robes  riche,  or  hdel,  or  sautrie. 

Chaucer. 
Oh,  ye  gods. 
Give  me  a  worthy  patience  I     Have  I  stood 
Naked,  alone,  the  shock  of  many  fortunes  ! 
Have  I  seen  mischiefs  numberless  and  mighty 
Grow  like  a  sea  upon  me  ?     Have  I  taken 
Danger  as  stern  as  death  into  my  bosom, 
And  laughed  upon  it,  made  it  but  a  mirth. 
And  tlung  it  by.     *     *     *     Do  I 
Bear  all  this  bravely,  and  must  sink  at  last 
Under  a  woman's  falsehood  ! 

Beaumont  A^^D  Fletchek. 

"  Nay,  I  cannot  abide  these  new-fangled 
novelties,"'  observed  Master  Peregrine,  who 
with  the  others  of  the  squire's  company, 
with  William  Shakspcare  in  the  midst,  ap- 
peared to  be  examining  of  certain  shelves  of 
books  that  were  in  an  antique  oak  chamber 
in  Sir  Marinaduke's  mansion.  "  They  be 
but  for  the  delighting  of  dainty  ears,  and 
such  whose  fantasies  are  only  to  be  tickled 
with  fine  filed  phrases.  I  like  not  the  boy 
should  have  such  poor  reading." 

"  I  assure  you  the  Mirrour  for  Magis- 
trates is  in  excellent  repute  of  all  men," 
said  Sir  Reginald.  "  It  is  a  very  admirable 
fine  poem,  or  series  of  legends,  relating  the 
falls  of  the  unfortunate  princes  of  thi.s  land, 
first  originating  with  my  Lord  Sackville, 
and  now  carried  on  by  divers  authors  of  re- 
putation." 

"  Nay,  I  have  here  one  that  he  will  more 
approve  of,"  cried  Sir  Valentine,  as  lie  lield 
a  volume  in  his  hand  that  looked  quite  new. 
"  It  is  called  the  Paradyse  of  Daynty  De- 
vises, aptly  furnished  with  sundry  pithie  and  j  Master  Peregrine 

learned  inventions,  devised  and  written  for  men  of  the  types  of  Wynkyn  de  Worde 
the  most  part  by  Master  Edwards,  sometime  But  if  you  be  for  grave  reading,  clioose  you 
of  her  Majesties  chappel ;  the  rest  by  sun-   Tiie  Seven  Wise  Ma.-sters.     If  you  are  for 


"  I  doubt  not,"  said  the  chaplain,  who  had 
also  a  book  in  his  hand.  "  But  methinks  I 
have  something  here  far  more  fitting,  of  the 
ingenious  Master  Tuber\-i lie,  being  no  other 
than  the  heroical  epistles  of  the  learned  poet 
Publius  Ovidins  Naso,  with  Aulus  Sabinus' 
answers  to  certaine  of  the  same,  a  very  fa- 
mous and  proper  classic." 

"What  have  we  here?"  cried  the  old 
knight,  e.xamining  a  volume  he  had  just 
taken  ofi'  the  shelf.  "  A  hundretli  Good 
Pointes  of  Ilusbandrie,  as  I  live,  and  very 
profitable  reading  doubtless." 

"  Pish,  what  wants  he  with  books  of  such 
a  sort  ?"  inquired  Master  Peregrine  impati- 
ently, as  he  regarded  with  particular  satis- 
faction a  huge  folio  from  the  same  place. 
"  This  is  such  as  he  will  like  most.  O'  my 
word,  it  is  a  treasure  beyond  all  price.  This 
great  rarity  is  entitled,  A  book  of  the  noble 
Hystoryes  of  Kynge  Arthur,  and  of  certe}'n 
of  his  Knyghtes,"  and  is  from  Caxton'sown 
press,  and  bears  the  date  anno  1485.  O 
what  a  jewel ! — O  what  a  pearl  of  price  ! — 
In  good  fay,  I  can  scarce  take  my  eyes  oft 
such  an  inestimable  rare  volume." 

William  Shakspeare  turned  his  intelligent 
e3'es  from  one  to  another,  as  each  recom- 
mended his  particular  book,  almost  puzzled 
which  of  these  goodly  volumes  he  should 
choose  first,  but  in  a  wonderful  impatience  to 
be  at  one  of  them. 

"  Methinks,  after  all,  'twill  be  host  to  let 
him  make  his  own  choice,"  observed  Sir 
Marmaduke.  "  What  say  you,  young  sir," 
said  he  to  him.  "  Which  of  a!l  these  booka 
think  you  the  properest  for  your  reading  ■?"' 

"  An'  it  please  your  worship,"  replied 
William,  with  much  simplicity,  "  I  must 
needs  read  them  all  before  I  can  say  which 
is  best,  with  any  justice." 

"  E'en  do  so,  then,  if  it  likes  you."  e.x- 
claimcd  the  old  knight,  laugliing  heartily 
with  the  rest.  "  There  are  thej-— you  are 
welcome  to  their  perusal  come  when  you 
will.  But  there  is  one  volume  I  would  have 
you  take  great  note  of,  and  that  is  called 
The  Gentleman's  Academic,  or  the  Booke 
of  St.  Albans,  writ  by  one  Juliana  Barnes, 
containing  the  choicc.-^t  accounts  of  hawk- 
ing, huntnig,  armorie,  I  have  met  with  any- 
where." 

Truly,  'tis  a  most  ravishing  work  !"  said 
'  A  notable  rare  speci- 


ury  learned  gentlemen  of  honour  and  wor- 
ship])e.  It  is  full  of  delectable  j)oems,  I  pro- 
mise you,  that  are  read  and  hugely  admired 
by  all  persons  of  quality." 


mirth,  pitch  upon  The  Hundred  Merry  Tales 
— if  for  the  reading  of  other  light  tales, 
nought  will  so  well  serve  your  turn  as  The 
Palace  of  Pleasure.   Take  you  to  romances. 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


81 


you  may  find  exquisite  diversion  in  Amadis 
of  Gaul,  Palmerin  of  England,  Huon  of  Bor- 
deaux, Sir  Bevis  of  Southampton,  Sir  Guy 
of  Warwick,  The  Seven  Champions,  Valen- 
tyne  and  Orson,  The  Squire  of  Low  De- 
gree. TJie  Knight  of  Courtesie,  and  the  La- 
dy Faguei,  The  Castle  of  Ladies,  and  a  hun- 
dred others  of  equal  great  merit :  but  if  you 
are  for  ballads,  my  young  master,  exquisite 
choice  ballads  and  songs  of  old  time,  look 
you  out  for  the  Blind  Beggar  of  Bethnal 
Green,  Queen  Di'Io,  Fortune  my  Foe,  Pep- 
per is  Black,  Adam  Bell,  Clymof  theClough, 
and  William  of  Cloudesly,  Robin  Hood  and 
the  Pindar  of  Waketield,  and  others  out  of 
all  number  of  every  kind,  subject,  and  qua- 
lity, which  are  here  ready  for  your  reading." 

'•  All  such  are  well  enough  in  their  way," 
observed  Sir  Johan.  "  But  if  he  take  to 
reading  of  the  classics,  all  other  reading 
whatsoever  advanceth  him  not  a  whit  in  his 
education.  What  can  he  learn  of  ancient 
history,  save  out  of  Herodotus,  Thucydes, 
Zenophon,  Titus  Livius,  Tacitus,  and  Cae- 
sar ;  where  in  Philosophy  can  he  have  such 
guides  as  Aristotle,  Socrates,  Epicurus,  Eu- 
clid, that  famous  master  of  figures  ;  Pliny, 
that  curious  observer  of  nature,  that  profound 
expounder  of  surgicals.  In  poetry  what  is 
like  unto  the  works  of  Homer,  Pindar,  Ana- 
creon,  Virgil,  Horace,  or  Ovid  ?  And  in 
eloquence,  what  can  come  in  any  way  near 
unto  Demosthenes,  or  Cicero  ?  Truly  then 
the  classics  should  be  before  all  other  books, 
for  the  study  of  any  young  person,  and  so  it 
will  bo  found  in  all  colleges  and  schools 
throughout  Christendom." 

These  advocates  for  modern  and  ancient 
learning,  rnight  have  waxed  warm  in  their 
dispute,  had  they  been  allowed,  and  the  two 
young  knights  also  took  part  in  it  in  praise  of 
chivalrous  tales,  Italian  sonnets,  and  French 
lays  and  romances ;  but  Sir  Marmaduke 
good  humoredly  put  an  end  to  the  argum.ent 
by  telling  them  the  dinner  bell  was  a  ring- 
ing, which  caused  them  to  forget  their  books 
awhile,  and  look  to  their  appetites. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  William  Shaks- 
pearo  was  bountifully  provided  for  in  all 
manner  of  learning,  and  it  may  well  be  be- 
lieved he  was  not  long  in  availing  himself 
of  the  treasures  so  liberally  placed  at  his 
disposal.  All  spare  time  he  could  get  was 
passed  in  the  old  knight's  library,  where  he 
kept  like  a  bird  in  a  granary,  feeding  on  the 
plenteous  store  in  a  most  grateful  spirit,  and 
with  no  desire  to  move  from  such  excellent 
neighborhood.  But  he  was  rarely  left  alone 
for  any  great  period,  for  Sir  Marmaduke  and 
his  friends  were  too  well  pleased  with  his 
quickness  of  apprehension  and  xintiring  in- 


dustry, not  to  do  all  in  their  power  to  assist 
the  studies  of  so  promising  a  scholar ;  there- 
fore he  was  sure  to  have  with  either  the  old 
knight  himself,  who  would  readily  go  over 
with  him  any  creditable  book  of  legends,  or 
ancient  customs  and  sports  ;  or  his  chaplain, 
who  took  huge  pains  he  should  not  be  in- 
different to  the  treasures  of  classic  lore, 
never  forgetting  by  the  by  to  put  in  on  an 
occasion,  some  most  m.oving  discourse  on  the 
goodness  of  Providence,  and  explain  the  chief 
points  of  all  moral  doctrine.  Then  came 
Master  Perregrine  ready  to  cuddle  him  with 
delight,  should  he  find  him  intent  upon  some 
worm  eaten  black  letter  folio,  or  a  bundle  of 
old  ballads,  and  he  would  not  rest  till  he  had 
made  his  pupil  familiar  with  whatsoever 
concerning  of  them  he  thought  worthy  of 
knowing — and  at  another  time  he  would  be 
visited  by  tlie  two  young  knights  with  whom 
he  was  in  particular  esteem,  and  they  were 
ever  striving  to  possess  him  with  the  notion 
that  the  gallantest  accomplishments  were 
the  most  worthy  of  study,  especially  of  the 
Italian  tongue,  and  that  nought  was  like 
unto  the  sweetness  of  Petrarch,  the  pleas- 
antry of  Boccacio,  or  the  grandeur  of  Dante, 
Tasso  and  Ariosto. 

From  this  it  is  evident  on  the  face  of,  that 
none  could  have  a  fairer  schooling  than  our 
young  scholar.  Indeed,  he  now  gained 
more  knowledge  in  a  day  than  he  could  have 
had  of  that  pedantic,  poor  ignoramus,  his 
schoolmaster,  all  his  life ;  and  it  was  the 
marvel  of  all  to  notice  how  famously  he  got 
on  in  his  learning.  There  appeared  to  be 
nothing  he  could  not  give  a  reason  for,  or 
description  of,  for  he  took  infiiiite  trouble  by 
asking  questions  of  all  sorts  of  people,  as 
well  as  by  conning  of  every  book  in  Sir 
Marmaduke's  library,  to  remain  ignorant  of 
as  little  as  possible.  Hour  after  hour  hath 
he  passed  at  a  time  over  some  pitljy  book, 
till  his  head  would  ache  with  the  intentness 
with  which  he  would  give  his  mind  to  the 
m.atter  of  it — then  away  he  went  like  a 
wild  buck  of  the  forest,  broke  loose  from 
confinement,  over  the  green  fields  and 
through  the  nutty  woods,  hither  and  thither 
everywhere,  drinking  v/ithin  his  nostrils, 
choked  with  the  closeness  of  musty  volumes, 
the  sweet  pure  air  freshened  with  the  cool 
breeze — and  at  his  aching  eyes,  tired  of  the 
sameness  of  so  much  paper  and  print,  taking 
in  with  as  greedy  a  draught  the  pleasant 
greenness  of  the  teeming  soil,  and  the  deli- 
cate soft  blue  of  the  expanding  heavens. 

Some  how  or  another  it  happened,  that  he 
often  found  himself  thinking  of  the  beauti- 
ful fair  creature  he  had  seen  rescued  by  his 
friends,  from  the  hands  of  villains,  when  he 


82 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


was  enjoying  the  princely  pleasures  of  Ken- 
ilworth.  In  his  solitury  musings,  whereof 
after  any  deep  study,  lie  had  of  late  taken 
to,  her  radiant  features  would  suddenly  glide 
into  his  youthful  mind,  like  as  a  sudden 
burst  of  sunshine  pierceth  the  leafy  brandies 
of  a  young  tree  ;  and  all  his  tliou^hts  took 
a  character  of  such  brightness  on  the  in- 
stant, as  showed  there  was  some  power  of 
brilliancy  in  her  image  that  made  resplend- 
ent its  whole  neighborhood.  This  to  him 
was  botli  new  and  strange.  The  forms  of 
beauty  of  which  he  had  had  experience,  and 
they  were  by  no  means  few,  had  given  him 
delight — but  here  was  something  presented 
to  him  of  a  totally  different  character — of  a 
most  singular  admirable  loveliness  ;  and  the 
pleasure  he  derived  from  its  observation  he 
felt  to  bo  of  a  far  more  exquisite  sort  than 
he  had  known  heretofore.  The  varied  dies 
of  the  delicatest  flowers  peeping  irom  their 
vernal  coverts — tlie  tall  monarchs  of  the 
forests,  bending  their  haughty  heads  to  the 
rude  wind — the  soft  mingling  of  iield  and 
wood,  hill,  stream  and  valley,  bathed  in  their 
mellow  tints,  that  made  up  the  ravishing  fair 
landscape — the  glorious  show  of  unsurpass- 
ed magnificence,  visible  at  the  sun's  rising 
and  going  down,  which  clothed  the  skies, 
like  an  oriental  conqueror,  in  a  garment  of 
purple  and  gold,  and  the  more  graceful 
splendor  of  the  quiet  night,  when  earth's 
unrivalled  roof  seems  as  though  carved  all 
about  with  the  likeness  of  a  goodly  almond 
tree,  as  'tis  seen  at  eve,  with  its  verdure 
deepening  into  a  dark  blue,  spread  over  in 
every  part  with  myriads  of  silvery  blossoms 
— he  could  enjoy  with  such  huge  zest  as 
hearts  attuned  to  sympathy  with  the  beauti- 
ful can  alone  have  knowledge  of;  but  in  the 
outward  lineaments  of  this  novel  sign  of  the 
presence  of  nature's  unrivalled  handiwork, 
there  appeared  such  moving  graces,  that 
plainly  showed  the  masterpiece  confessed  ; 
and  he  had  some  glimpses,  in  the  delicious 
raptures  which  an  increasing  familiarity 
with  his  mental  perception  of  the  beautiful 
promised  liim,  of  that  marvellous  deep 
meaning  which  lieth  most  manifestly  in  the 
choicest  and  pertectest  shape  in  which  our 
bountiful  motlier  hath  given  il  a  dwelling. 
Let  none  tool  incredulous  of  what  is  here 
put  down.  Though  still  in  years  apparent, 
but  of  an  unripe  boyhood,  the  child  had  in 
him  the  greatness  of  the  man  in  embryo. 
Take  you  ihe  bud,  examine  it  narrowly,  you 
shall  find  in  it  a  miniature-tree,  perfect  in  all 
its  parts ;  or  the  bean — as  its  sides  have 
opened  to  show  some  promise  of  what  it 
will  be — and  behold  all  the  characters  of 
the  plant  minutely  visible  to  your  close  in- 


spection !  Nature  never  varj-eth  from  her 
first  original  type.  In  all  things  that  pro- 
mise a  profitable  increase,  the  power  is  fold- 
ed up  in  the  germ,  where,  despite  of  disad- 
vantages, it  will  gradually  unfold  itself,  till 
the  character  she  hath  put  forth  upon  it  is 
perfectly  developed,  to  all  men's  eyes.  Could 
we  look  into  the  immaturity  of  any  of  tliose 
great  ones,  whose  mental  fruits  have  been 
the  nourishing  diet  of  every  age  tliat  hatli 
passed  since  they  flourished,  be  sure  tliat 
we  should  find  at  such  early  period,  the  very 
appearances  and  manifestions  of  their  after 
perfection,  as  are  here  imperfectly  described 
concerning  of  William  Shakspeare.  As  for 
beauty,  it  is  the  very  sunshine  of  the  soul, 
without  which  shall  the  seed  of  greatness 
lie  dormant  as  in  a  perpetual  frost ;  but  di- 
rectly it  beginneth  to  make  itself  felt,  out 
come  stem,  root,  and  leaflet,  with  such 
goodly  vigor,  that  in  %  presently  the  brave 
plant  putteth  out  its  branches  so  lovingly, 
nought  can  resist  its  progress ;  and  lo  I  in  a 
little  while,  what  numberless  rare  blossoms 
appear,  manifesting  in  themselves  the  quali- 
ty by  which  they  were  created. 

But  our  yo\nig  scholar  was  not  the  only 
one  on  whom  the  attractions  of  the  gentle 
Mabel  had  made  a  powerful  impression.  Sir 
Valentine,  and  his  friend,  oft  spoke  of  her  to 
each  other  with  exceeding  admiration,  to 
which  if  in  his  company,  the  boy  would 
listen  Avith  a  flushed  cheek  and  a  throbbing 
heart,  seeming  to  be  poring  over  his  book — 
but  this  he  had  as  clean  lost  sight  of  for  the 
nonce  as  if  it  and  he  w'ere  a  hundred  miles 
apart. 

"  She  is,  indeed,  a  delectable  creature  !" 
exclaimed  Sir  Valentine,  as  they  three  were 
together  in  the  library.  "She  seemed  a 
being  just  stepped  out  of  souie  French  ro- 
mance, one  of  the  virtues'  perchance,  or 
better,  some  incomparable  damsel,  possessed 
of  them  all  in  lier  own  fair  person,  who  was 
about  falling  into  the  hands  of  a  powerful 
ogre,  or  other  monstrou-;  villain  that  is  a  foe 
to  ciiastity,  when  wo  two  knights  going 
about  to  redress  wrong  and  defend  o]ipressed 
innocence,  each  for  the  honor  of  chivalry 
and  his  liege  lady,  stepped  up  to  her  rescue, 
and  by  the  help  of  our  valor,  quickly  deliv- 
ered her  from  her  enemies." 

"  A  most  moving  picture,"  cried  Sir  Regi- 
nald, laughingly  ;  "  I  would  give  somctliing 
to  see  it  done  in  tapestry." 

"  O'  my  word,  'twould  be  a  fine  subject," 
said  his  friend,  with  some  earnestness;  "I 
doubt  not,  too,  of  especial  profit  to  the  gazer ; 
and  I  would  have  it  worked  in  this  sort. 
There  should  be  yourself,  and  I,  your  ap- 
proved friend  and  companion  in  arms,  giving 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


83 


4wo  of  the  villains  furious  battle;  and  in  a 
little  way  oft"  our  brave  kinsman — another 
famous  pillar  of  knighthood — shall  be  putting 
to  flight  tiie  other  two  rascals  away  from 
tiieir  expected  victim,  who  shall  be  lying 
prostrate  under  a  tree,  where  she  hath  been 
left,  in  a  very  moving  tribulation.  A  little 
way  from  this  we  will  have  a  second  pic- 
ture, with  the  villains  making  ofl  in  the  dis- 
tance— the  lady  now  in  a  pretty  fright  and 
bewilderment,  looking  about  her  with  Mas- 
ter Chaplain,  Master  Antiquarian,  and  our 
young  scholar,  as  country  persons  natural 
of  those  parts,  gazing  at  her  with  exceeding 
curiousness,  whilst  her  three  valiant  cham- 
pions shall  stand,  leaning  on  their  weapons, 
as  though  they  were  amazed  at  beholding 
such  heavenly  grace  in  so  pagan  a  place." 

"Never  heard  I  so  brave  a  limner!"  ex- 
claimed the  other,  in  the  like  pleasant  humor ; 
'■  Why  thou  wouldst  beat  tlie  cunningest  mas- 
ter of  the  art  out  of  the  Held.  O'  my  life,  in 
thy  hand  the  painted  cloth  would  be  more 
moving  than  history  ;  and  we  should  speed- 
ily have  all  lovers  of  true  valor,  instead  of 
seeking  the  enemy's  encampment,  studying 
lessons  of  knighthood  from  thy  arras." 

"  Well  I  should  be  right  glad  to  know 
what  hath  become  of  her,"  said  Sir  Valen- 
tine. I  like  not  parting  so  quickly  with  so 
rare  an  acquaintance,  I  promise  you.  Nev- 
ertheless methinks  'tis  marvellous  such  a 
strange  person  as  that  Sir  Thoujas  Lucy 
should  have  so  exquisite  a  daughter.  Had 
he  been  in  any  way  civil  I  would  have  be- 
stowed some  pains  to  please  him,  shrivelled 
pippin  as  he  looks  to  be;  but  he  spoke  so 
sharply  to  the  gentle  creature,  and  looked 
at  us  with  so  crabbed  an  expression,  that  I 
was  in  haste  to  be  quit  his  company ;  therefore 
I  have  been  in  peri'ect  ignorance  up  to  this 
data  where  she  is  to  be  found." 

"  I  have  at  least  discovered  the  old  fel- 
low's residence,"  said  Sir  Reginald. 

'■  Ha,  indeed  !"'  cried  Sir  Valentine,  in  a 
famous  exultation.  "  Perdie,  that  is  excel- 
lent news.  Whore  doth  the  pagan  place  so 
fair  a  jewel  ?  Tell  me,  I  prithee,  for  I  would 
impawn  my  heart  to  get  but  another  sight 
of  her." 

"  Marry,  but  I  think  'tis  impawned  al- 
ready, good  cousin,"  observed  his  friend 
with  an  arch  smile.  "  Thou  seemest  so 
monstrous  eager  on  the  matter ;  but  not  to 
baulk  thy  exceeding  curiousness,  for  my 
humor  jumps  with  it,  believe  me, — know 
that  this  peerless  damsel  hath  her  bovver  at 
Charlcote,  where  tlie  knight  of  despite,  her 
father,  holdeth  his  court." 

"  To  horse,  for  Charlcote  ho!"  exclaimed 
his  young  companion,  rising  from  his  seat ' 


in  a  merry  manner,  as  if  impatient  to  be 
gone. 

"  But  let  me  advise  tliec  of  sufficient  cau- 
tion," said  his  kinsman  with  an  admirable 
mock  gravity ;  great  dangers  beset  thy  path. 
Ogres,  giants,  basilisks,  and  dragons  await 
thee  on  every  side,  tlorror  will  cross  thy 
steps ;  despair  dog  thy  heels  ;  revenge  Com- 
eth on  thy  right  hand,  and  cruelty  on  thy 
left.  By  my  valor,  sir  knight,  methinks 
thou  hadst  best  refrain  from  so  perilous  an 
adventure." 

"  Amor  vincit  omnia  !"  replied  the  other 
after  the  same  pleasant  fashion;  and  thus 
jesting  and  bantering,  the  two  friends  a  few 
minutes  after,  left  our  young  scholar — who 
hud  drunk  in  every  word  of  their  discourse 
to  pursue  his  studies  in  solitude.  Little 
more  of  the  book  before  him  attempted  he 
acquaintance  with  for  some  time  before  and 
long  after  their  leaving  him.  He  thought, 
and  tlie  more  he  thougTit  the  more  thought- 
ful he  grew ;  but  his  thoughts  were  as  gos- 
samer webs  hovering  over  a  field,  that  catch 
nought  but  other  webs  of  a  like  sort;  they 
appeared  moreover  to  have  no  purport ;  they 
went  in  no  direct  path  ;  but  proceeded  over 
and  across,  around  and  about,  always  re- 
turning to  the  starting  point, — and  what 
should  that  be  but  the  same  fair  creature  he 
had  seen  at  Kenihvorth,  that  the  gay  knights 
had  talked  of  in  such  delicate  terms. 

In  the  meanwhile,  at  all  proper  intervals, 
he  assisted  his  father  as  far  as  in  him  lay  ;  at 
other  times  running  of  errands  with  an  alacri- 
ty and  cheerfulness  none  could  help  admiring. 
John  Siiakspeare  strove  all  that  honest  man 
could  to  keep  his  family  in  comfort.  He 
would  seek  to  do  a  little  in  his  old  trade  of 
wool,  and  also  something  as  a  glover ;  but 
though  thrift  and  diligence  were  twin  com- 
panions with  him  at  all  times,  the  expenses 
of  a  family  would  often  run  him  down  at 
heel.  Perchance,  however  desirous  he 
might  be  to  pay  as  he  went,  and  no  man 
more  so,  it  might  happen  wh^en  the  baker 
called  there  was  no  money.  Mortaging  a 
small  ])roperty  brought  him  by  his  wife  car- 
ried him  on  a  little  ;  but  this  could  not  last 
forever,  do  what  he  would,  and  it  became  no 
uncommon  thing  when  he  was  ready  for 
his  dinner,  to  have  no  dinner  ready  for  him. 
His  neighbors  were  ever  ready  to  lend  him 
a  helping  hand  ;  but  having  experienced 
their  friendly  feeling  in  some  measure,  he 
liked  not  letting  them  know  he  required  it 
again,  fearing  to  e.xhaust  their  goodness. 
All  that  our  young  scholar  gained  by  friend- 
ly gifts  was  presented  to  his  parents  as 
speedily  as  he  could  :  and  be  sure  he  felt 
more  exquisite  gratification  in  so  bestowing 


84 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


it,  than  he  experienced  in  any  other  thinjj  I 
whatsoever ;  but  it  sometimes  happened 
when  he  was  at  Sir  Marmaduke's,  or 
other  bountiful  friends,  before  a  goodly 
meal,  the  thought  that  his  loving  parents 
had  at  that  time  nothing  of  the  sort  to  put 
before  them,  would  so  move  him  he  could 
not  touch  a  morsel  of  anything,  however 
tempting  it  might  be.  And  as  lor  his  good 
mother  and  father,  they  cared  more  their 
son  should  keep  a  decent  appearance,  so 
that  he  might  do  no  discredit  to  his  compa- 
ny, than  they  heeded  their  own  comforts. 

Methinks  there  cannot  be  in  nature  so 
tnily  pitiful,  and  yet  a  sight  so  noble  withal, 
as  an  honest  man  struggling  with  adversity. 
Note  liow  he  labors  to  bear  up  his  heart 
against  the  crushing  weight  of  his  stern 
necessities.  See  his  nature — a  proud  na- 
ture, perchance,  for  there  is  no  pride  like 
that  of  honesty — reduced  to  the  mean  re- 
sorts of  poverty's  most  absolute  rule.  Be- 
hold the  fallacious  smile  and  abortive  cheer- 
fulness under  which  he  would  strive  to  hide 
the  iron  entering  his  soul !  Want  winds 
her  serpent  folds  around  him,  and  eats  into 
his  vitals  ;  Ruin  hovers  over  him  on  vul- 
ture's wings  to  seize  him  for  her  prey ; 
Disgrace  points  at  him;  Shame  follows  on 
his  steps  ;  and  Fear  seeks  to  disturb  the 
pleasant  shelter  of  his  dreams  ;  but  the  hon- 
est man  holds  up  his  head  like  a  flag  upon 
a  wreck,  and  when  that  rude  villain  Death 
would  take  the  wall  of  him,  dofls  his  beaver 
with  a  natural  dignity  mere  gallantry  can 
have  no  example  of. 

Such  it  was  with  John  Shakspeare.  He 
did  his  best,  but  his  best  failed.  He  put 
forth  all  his  strength,  but  all  his  strength 
was  insufficient.  The  brand  of  poverty  ap- 
peared to  have  marked  him  for  her  own  ; 
but  worse  than  that  to  him,  he  saw  his 
wife  pining,  and  his  children  wanting 
nourishment.  In  such  a  state  of  things  it 
might  have  been  thought  that  he  would 
have  made  application  to  some  of  the  per- 
sons of  worship  in  his  neighborhood,  whose 
characters  were  a  guarantee  it  would  not 
have  been  made  in  vain  ;  but  worthy  per- 
sons when  they  fall  to  those  poor  shifts  as 
render  such  an  act  necessary,  are  found 
monstrous  loath  to  trouble  the  rich  and  pow- 
erful with  their  necessities.  Sir  Marma- 
duke  doubtless  would  have  very  readily 
done  him  such  service  ;  but  he  had  no  in- 
timation his  assistance  was  required  ;  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare  always  making  such  an 
appearance,  by  means  already  spoken  of, 
which  prevented  him  from  entertaining  any 
suspicions  his  father  was  in  any  other  but 
comfortable  circumstances;    and  the   poor 


glover,  however  meanly  off  he  might  be» 
could  never  bring  himself  to  hazard  his  son's 
prospects  with  so  great  a  frit-nd,  by  impor- 
tuning of  the  latter  with  his  own  hapless 
condition. 

At  last,  after  a  protracted  struggle  with 
himself  on  the  matter,  and  things  getting  to 
wear  a  more  serious  aspect,  he  made  up  his 
mind  he  would  venture  to  move  his  old 
friend  John  a  Combe.  Strange  rumors  iiad 
been  afloat  for  some  time  concerning  of  this 
good  gentleman.  On  a  sudden  he  had  l)ecn 
missed  from  Stratford,  and  after  some  years 
stay,  had  again  returned — but  oh,  how 
altered  a  man  !  Those  who  saw  him  scarce 
knew  him,  and  those  whom  lie  saw  he  seem- 
ed determined  he  would  not  know.  It  was 
said  there  were  such  marked  lines  in  his 
pallid  countenance,  as  though  a  thousand 
cares  had  ploughed  their  furrows  in  the 
flesh,  and  ttiat  when  he  walked  abroad, 
which  was  something  rare  in  him,  he 
would  mingle  with  none,  gieet  none,,  be 
known  of  none — but  move  slowly  along, 
with  his  body  bent,  and  his  eyes  ti.\ed  sul- 
lenly on  the  ground,  sometimes  moving  of 
his  lips — though  what  fell  from  them  none 
could  say.  It  was  also  reported  that  he  had 
become  an  usurer — lending  of  his  money  at 
exorbitant  charges,  and  being  exceeding 
strict  in  forcing  the  payment.  Not  a  word 
of  this  would  John  Shakspeare  believe. 
What,  that  noble  heart  become  a  selfish  sol- 
itary, he  had  known  of  so  social  a  spirit — or 
that  generous  nature  debase  itself  with  ava- 
rice, he  had  seen  risking  the  horriblest  death 
out  of  pure  philanthropy  !  It  was  clean 
impossible.  They  must  most  grossly  belie 
him  who  reported  of  him  any  such  mean- 
ness. So  thought  the  po»3r  glover  of  his  old 
acquaintance,  and  with  these  thoughts  ho 
one  morning  took  his  staff  in  his  hand  and  pro- 
ceeded to  his  dwelling. 

At  his  first  entrance  at  tlie  gate,  John 
Shakspeare  saw  there  was  at  least  a  nota- 
ble change  in  the  house  once  so  familiar  to 
him.  Everything  around  and  about  it  look- 
ed strange  and  desolate,  and  as  opposite  to 
the  state  in  which  it  used  to  be  kept,  as  any 
two  things  could  chance  to  be.  The  fair 
garden  thai  once  was  tlu;  ])ride  of  the  place 
lor  its  order  and  triinness,  ap[)eared  now  a 
mere  heap  of  weeds,  straggling  bushes,  and 
withered  plants.  The  goodly  trees  that 
were  wont  to  be  so  well  trailed  against  the 
wall,  had  broke  from  their  bindings,  and  lay 
with  their  straggling  branches  almost  leaf- 
less, with  the  unchecked  ravages  of  vermin 
and  neglect.  The  dwelling  seemed  no  less 
wretched.  A  broken  casement,  and  a  porch 
dirty  and  crumbling  with  decay,  sj>oke  how 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


85 


little  outward  appearances  were  now  cared 
for  by  the  possessor.  John  Shakspeare 
shook  his  head  at  noting  of  these  things. 
It  then  occurred  to  him  that  some  fearful 
change  must  have  taken  place  in  John  a 
Combe,  else  John  a  Combe's  dwelling  could 
never  have  come  to  so  pitiful  a  condition. 

The  door  was  cautiously  opened  by  a 
sour  looking  slovenly  old  dame,  instead  of  a 
neat  pretty  handmaid,  and  active  young  ser- 
ving man, that  had  used  to  have  been  so 
ready  to  show  a  visitor  all  proper  courtesy, 
and  after  sharply  interrogating  him  on  his 
business,  she  led  him  through  the  hall — 
where  everything  spoke  a  similar  story  of 
indifferency  to  all  comfort  and  cleanliness, 
as  did  the  ruined  garden  and  delapidated 
porch — into  a  small  back  chamber  choking 
with  dust.  Here  before  a  heap  of  many  pa- 
pers and  parchments,  sat  his  worthy  and 
esteemed  friend  Master  Combe.  John 
Shakspeare  looked  with  greater  intentness 
ere  he  would  believe  his  own  eyes.  He 
saw  before  him  a  man  he  knew  to  be  in  the 
pride  of  manhood,  with  all  the  externals  of 
decrepid  age.  The  grey  hair,  the  blanched 
cheek,  and  the  sunken  eye,  could  not  be 
mistaken  ;  but  besides  these  unwelcome 
signs,  there  was  in  his  aspect  a  mingled  ex- 
pression of  agony  and  distrust,  that  was 
more  moving  than  all.  John  Shakspeare's 
honest  heart  sunk  within  him,  as  he  beheld 
this  painful  spectacle  which  exhibited  the 
more  wretchedness,  by  the  mean  habiliments 
in  which  it  appeared, — for  he  who  had  used 
to  dress  in  so  becoming  a  fashion,  he  was 
admired  of  all,  was  now  attired  in  coarse 
clothes  and  uncleanly  linen,  unworthy  of  a 
person  even  of  the  lowest  quality. 

Master  Couibe  stared  at  his  old  friend 
without  the  slightest  sign  of  cordiality,  or 
even  of  recognition  ;  and  seemed  as  though 
he  would  have  him  say  his  errand  without 
delay ;  whereupon  his  visitor  though  more 
distressed  at  such  a  moment  at  tlic  condi- 
tion of  one  he  had  known  to  be  so  good  a 
man,  than  his  own,  presently  gave  an  un- 
varnislied  tale  of  his  losses  and  sufferings, 
and  the  stern  necessity  which  had  compelled 
him  to  ask  a  loan  to  afford  him  some  pre- 
sent help.  Master  Combe  sat  the  tale  out 
with  a  stone-like  indifference. 

"  What  security  hast  got  ?"  said  he  at 
last,  rather  sharply. 

"  None,'"  replied  his  visitor,  much  pained 
at  hearing  of  so  unexpected  a  question. 

"  What,  come  to  me  seeking  of  money 
without  security !"  exclaimed  Master  Combe, 
as  if  in  a  monstrous  surprise.''  Dost  not 
knov/  I  am  an  usurer,  and  dost  not  know 
usurers  lend  not,  save  on  sure  grounds  and 


profitable  terms  ?  I  must  have  ten  in  the 
hundred,  and  I  must  have  something  to  hold 
upon  of  such  value  as  will  ensure  the  safe- 
ty of  the  loan." 

"Alack,  I  have  it  not,"  answered  John 
Shakspeare,  marvelling  the  generous  nature 
of  his  old  companion  should  have  taken  so 
ill  a  turn.  "1  expected  not  you  were  so 
changed,  else  I  would  not  have  troubled 
you." 

"  Changed  !"  cried  the  other  with  a  bitter 
emphasis.  "  Marry,  yes,  and  a  goodly 
change  it  must  needs  be.  What,  wouldst 
suppose  I  would  remain  all  my  days  the 
generous  confiding  fool  I  have  once  been  ? 
Have  I  not  given  without  stint — have  I  not 
endured  without  flinching  for  the  good  of 
my  fellows,  and  none  ends  else  ?  Lived  I 
not  in  the  strong  belief  of  the  excellence  of 
humanity,  and  sought  all  means  to  show  I 
was  mysef  a  parcel  of  the  whole?  What 
good  thing  have  I  left  undone  that  was  in 
my  power.  Where  have  I  failed  in  the 
exercise  of  an  impartial  benevolence  ?  When 
gave  I  not  every  one  his  due,  or  kept  my- 
self back  when  one  unjustly  used  required  a 
defender  ?" 

"  Never,  as  I  gladly  testify,"  exclaimed 
his  companion. 

"  And  what  hath  been  my  profit  ?"  in- 
quired Master  Combe,  still  more  bitterly,  as 
he  rose  from  his  seat  in  an  increasing  ex- 
citement ;  "  hopes  blighted,  health  ruined, 
and  happiness  destroyed !  Look  on  me — 
see  you  one  particle  of  what  I  was  !  Yet 
is  the  change  without,  in  no  comparison 
with  that  which  is  within.  My  whole  na- 
ture is  blasted,  riven  and  torn  up  by  the 
roots.  Not  a  green  leaf  shall  you  find  on 
it,  search  where  you  will.  Not  a  sign  of 
any  goodness  whatsoever.  An  earthquake 
hath  trampled  on  me — a  pestilence  hath 
eaten  up  all  the  pure  essence  of  my  being — 
what  is  human  of  me  is  stifled,  poisoned, 
crushed,  and  cast  out  of  all  likeness  with 
humanity.  I  am  a  moving  desolation — a 
living  desert — a  well  that  the  scorching  air 
hath  left  dry  as  a  stone." 

John  Shakspeare  looked  on  and  listened, 
quite  forgetful  of  his  own  wretchedness. 

"  See  you  that  spider  in  the  crack  ?"  in- 
quired Master  Combe,  suddenly  taking  the 
other  by  the  arm. 

''  Ay,  I  see  it  plain,"  replied  he,  looking 
narrowly  to  the  spot  pointed  out. 

"  He  is  spinning  his  web  in  the  ruin 
around  him,"  continued  his  companion,  as 
if  in  some  sort  of  exultation.  "  He  means 
to  make  prey  of  all  he  can.  John  Shaks- 
peare, 1  am  intent  upon  a  like  thing,"  added 
he,  sinking  his   voice  to  a  mere  whisper. 


86 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


"  Take  heed  of  yourself,  else  you  will  find 
yourself  in  my  snare.  To  the  door  with 
what  speed  you  have." 

John  Shakspearo,  so  moved  ho  scarce  knew 
what  he  was  about,  took  \ip  his  cap  ;  but, 
finding  it  feel  unusually  heavy,  looked  in  it 
with  some  narrowness,  and  there,  to  his 
great  surprise,  saw  a  purse  of  money. 

"  IIow   came  this  here  V  exclaimed  he, 
taking  it  in  his  hand.     "  As   I  live,  there ! 
was  nought  of  the  kind  in  my  cap  a  moment 
since,  when  I  laid  it  down."  { 

"  How  should  I  know,  i'faith  ?"  cried 
Master  Combe,  sharf)ly. 

"  It  must  needs  Ijclong  to  you,  worthy  sir, 
for  it  camiot  be  mine,"  said  his  companion, 
seeking  to  give  liim  tlie  purse. 

"  Marry,  what  new  foily  is  this !"  exclaim- 
ed tlie  other,  putting  it  away.  "  Dost  think 
I  would  give  thee  such  ?  Doth  usurers 
part  with  their  money  after  such  fashion  ? 
Fanciest  I  would  allow  of  thy  s^preading  the 
rare  intelligence  amongst  thy  acquaintance, 
that  John  a  Combe  is  as  monstrous  a  fool  as 
ever  he  was,  and  liketh  nought  so  well  as 
helping  some  one  in  his  need  !  Go  get  thee 
gone,  John  Shakspeare,"  added  he,  pushing 
his  companion  to  the  door,  "  thou  art  honest, 
and  must  needs  be  a  fool — tliou  hast  no  lack 
of  virtue,  therefore  cannot  escape  being 
taken  for  a  knave ;"  and  in  the  next  moment 
the  door  was  closed  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Ovt-r  my  altars  hath  he  hung  his  lance, 
His  battered  siiicld,  his  uiicoritrclled  crest, 

And  for  my  sake  hath  learned  to  sport  and  dance. 
To  coy,  to  wanton,  dalh',  smile,  and  jest. 

SUAKSPEARE. 

Take  heed,  sweet  nymph,  try  not  thy  shaft. 

Each  little  touch  will  pierce  a  heart ; 
Alas  !  thou  know'st  not  Cnpid's  craft. 
Revenge  is  joy,  the  end  is  smart. 

Daviso.v. 
But  what  on  ctu'th  can  long  abide  in  state  ] 
Or  who  can  him  a.ssure  of  hnppy  day  ? 
Sith  morning  fair  may  bring  f.)iil  evening  late. 
And  le  ist  mishap  the  most  blessed  alter  may  ! 
For  thousand  perils  lie  in  clo^ie  await. 
About  us  daily  to  work  our  decay, 
That  none  e.xcept  a  god,  or  God  him  guide. 
May  llieia  avoid  or  remedy  provide. 

Sl'E.\SER. 

"  I  TiUNK  it  exceeding  improper  of  tlicc, 
Mabel  !"  exclaimed  Dame  Lucy,  with  a 
countenance  of  more  than  ordinary  gravity, 
whilst  she  walked  in  th.;  grounds  ajipcrtain- 


ing  to  her  husband's  mansion  at  Charlcote, 
in  all  her  pride  of  farthingale  and  hcadtire. 

"  What  else  could  I  do,  I  pray  you,  dear 
mistress?"  said  the  lair  creature  "in  a  de- 
precating tone,  follmving  of  her  closelv. 
"  These  good  gentlemen  would  needs  speak 
with  me,  and  surely  there  was  no  offence  in 
their  speech." 

"  O,  monstrous  offence  !  beyond  all  doubt- 
ing," replied  the  dame.  "  Thou  canst  have 
no  conception,  child,  what  offence  may  lie 
in  speech  without  it  being  visible.  There 
are  meaning  in  words  that  are  horrible  to 
think  of,  albeit  they  appear  of  ever  such  in- 
nocency." 

"  I  took  it  but  as  a  mere  greeting,"  added 
her  companion,  in  some  surprise  at  what 
had  fallen  from  the  other.  "  They  were 
infinitely  kind  in  their  inquiries  ;  and  so 
courteous  withal,  it  is  hard  to  believe  any- 
thing uncivil  of  them. 

"  Trust  not  to  sucli  kindness,"  said  her 
mistress  somewhat  oracularly,  "  'tis  a  poor 
stale  to  catch  woodcock.?.  I  marvel  what 
such  line  fellows  should  want  of  so  poor  a 
person  !  No  good,  by  my  fay  !  Doubtless, 
would  they  seek  to  fill  thee  with  foolish  fan- 
tasies improper  for  thy  humble  station,  ancl 
so  turn  it  to  their  advantages.  But  me- 
thinks  I  have  given  them  a  right  proper  re- 
ception. I  showed  them  such  dignity  of 
bv»havior  as  proved  how  little  I  thought  of 
tlrem  and  tlieir  fine  v.-ords.  They  will  not 
come  here  again,  I'll  warrant." 

"  Dost  not  think,  dear  mistress,  'twas 
marvellous  good  of  them  to  rescue  me  from 
the  hands  of  those  rude  persons  who  were 
for  taking  mo  away,  I  know  not  where, 
whilst  we  were  at  Kenilworth  ?" 

"  Nay,  9'  my  hfe,  I  know  not,"  replied  the 
dame,  "  I  cannot  speak  of  that  of  which  I 
liavc  no  certain  knowledge.  Perchance,  if 
the  truth  should  be  come  at,  more  mi.-^chiof 
woukl  be  found  in  those  who  stayed  thee, 
than  in  those  who  were  for  carrying  thee 
off.  I  liked  not  tlicir  looks.  They  liave  a 
horrible  suspicions  apjiearance  witii  tlier.i." 

"  I  saw  it  not,  believe  me,"  said  her  young 
companion.  "  Indeed  they  did  appear  to 
me  tlie  noblest,  kinde.st,  honorablost  young 
gentlemen,  it  hatli  over  been  my  good  hap 
to  meet." 

"  Tilly  vally,  stuff  o'nonsense,  child  !" 
exclaimed  Dame  Lucy,  with  some  sharp- 
ness. "  Marry,  how  shouldst  know  aught 
concerning  of  honorable  young  gentlemen  ; 
and  what  dost  want  witli  such?  I'rilheo 
hold  thy  silly  jjrate.  Thou  wilt  have  enough 
to  do  to  get  thy  bread  with  an  honest  name, 
without  troubling  tliyself  witli  any  sucii  im- 
jiroper  mtitters.      Honorable  young  gentle- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAIiSPEARE. 


87 


men,  forsooth !  The  world  mnst  be  clean 
topsy  turvy  when  persons  of  thy  quality  take 
to  such  notions." 

The  poor  foundling  was  silenced,  and  the 
two  continued  their  walk  without  ever  a 
word  more  ;  yet  though  her  tongue  was  at 
rest,  her  thoughts  were  riglit  busy.  Obedi- 
I'ut  as  she  was,  and  yielding  as  was  her 
iiature,  nothing  of  what  her  companion  had 
Mid,  had  convinced  her,  tlie  handsome  gal- 
lants who  had  so  bravely  rescued  her  from 
she  knew  not  what  peril,  and  that,  after  so 
long  a  time — hearing  where  she  lived,  had 
'ione  on  purpose  to  inqiiire  how  she  had 
1  ared  after  lier  great  alarm — had  treated  her 
with  such  extreme  courteousness,  were  any- 
thing but  truly  noble  gentlemen,  who  meant 
her  well.  Doubtless  it  was  sometliing  new 
to  her  to  be  treated  with  delicate  respect  by 
jiorsons  of  quality,  as  they  appeared  ;  for 
slie  was  only  regarded  as  a  servant,  and  only 
associated  with  such,  save  at  those  times 
she  was  attending  of  her  mistress ;  therefore 
ilie  impression  they  made  upon  her  might 
have  been  the  more  powerful  than  could 
have  been  produced  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances. Women  in  general,  and  especially 
of  the  younger  sort,  who  have  been  used  to 
be  meanly  thought  of,  are  wonderfidly  grate- 
ful for  any  slight  courtesy  from  a  superior, 
and  are  ready  to  give  all  their  hearts  for 
such  attentions,  should  they  believe  them  to 
be  sincere  ;  and  Mabel,  whose  gentle  nature 
was  overflowing  with  gTatitude  at  any  kind- 
ness, took,  at  the  most  liberal  appreciation, 
the  attentions  of  the  two  young  knights. 

Certes  Mabel  continued  to  think  very 
kindly  of  Sir  Valentine  and  his  friend,  and 
was  famously  glad  she  had  met  with  them 
again ;  for  ever  since  slie  had  first  formed 
their  acquaintance,  she  had  wished  she 
might  see  them  once  more,  and  wow  she  had 
a  second  time  beheld  them,  she  lioped  it 
might  chance  they  would  again  meet.  She 
thought  not  one  whit  more  of  one  than  of 
the  other  ;  she  felt  she  should  desire  to  be 
well  esteemed  of  both.  In  accordance  with 
such  feelings,  wlienever  she  could  get  away 
from  the  old  dame  for  a  walk  by  herself, 
she  would  direct  her  steps  towards  the  spot 
where  she  had  last  met  her  brave  deliverers. 
Mayhap  it  Avas  chance  which  led  her  that 
way ;  but  as  it  occurred  every  time  she  was 
for  a  stroll  in  the  park,  methinks  it  was  of 
that  order  of  chances  which  savor  marvel- 
lously of  design.  But  it  so  happened  these 
walks  of  her's  ended  as  they  commenced. 
She  met  not  those  whose  company  she  de- 
sired, and  she  began  to  think  such  great 
pleasure  could  never  be  hers  again. 

Some  mouths  after  the  interview  to  which 


allusion  hath  just  been  made,  she  was  re- 
turning homewards  from  her  ordinary  ram- 
ble, somewhat  out  of  heart  at  her  many 
disappointments,  when,  to  her  wonderful 
great  exultation,  she  suddenly  espied  Sir 
Valentine  wending  his  way  towards  her 
through  the  trees.  The  young  knight  made 
his  greeting  with  all  the  courtesy  of  a  true 
soldier,  gazing  with  most  admiring  glances 
on  the  fair  creature  before  him,  wlio,  to  his 
thinking,  had  gTown  to  be  infinitely  more 
beautiful  even  tlian  when  he  had  last  had 
sight  of  her ;  but  the  truth  was,  she  was 
now  all  smiles,  gladness,  and  animation — 
happiness  was  beaming  in  her  sunny 
glances,  and  pleasure  basked  in  the  soft 
hollows  of  her  radiant  cheek.  Such  sweet 
simplicity,  such  genuine  truth, — so  artless 
and  unworldly  a  nature  Sir  Valentine  had  ■ 
had  no  knowledge  of ;  and  lie,  whose  truly 
chivalrous  disposition  was  so  ready  to  take 
on  trust  the  admirable  qualities  of  woman, 
could  not  fail  to  appreciate  such  excellences 
as  he  had  now  held  in  his  personal  ac- 
quaintance. He  looked  as  though  he  could 
never  tire  of  such  exquisite  company.  His 
handsome  smiling  features  spoke  what  ab- 
solute satisfaction  ho  was  then  and  there 
enjoying ;  and  the  longer  lie  si^ayed  in  her 
bewitching  presence,  the  less  inclined  ap- 
peared he  to  take  himself  away  from  it. 

As  for  Mabel,  nouglit  in  this  world  could 
equal  the  exceeding  pleasantness  she  ex- 
perienced in  listening  to  her  companion's 
soft  mellow  voice  and  polished  deUvery,  de- 
scribing to  her  such  of  the  princely  pleasures 
of  Kenilworth  she  had  not  beheld.  She  en- 
tirely forgot  she  was  a  poor  despised  found- 
ling, and  in  her  fantasy  accompanied  her 
eloquent  companion  through  all  the  glorious 
pageantries,  noble  banquets,  and  courtly 
recreations,  that  were  enjoyed  by  the  noble 
company  at  the  castle,  as  though  they  had 
been  her  customary  and  most  familiar  pas- 
times, from  tlie  beginning  of  her  earliest 
remembrances.  I  question  she  vvould  have 
b?en  as  properly  entertained  with  the  reality 
of  what  slie  lieard,  as  was  she  with  their 
mere  narration ;  but  when  the  narrator  di- 
gressed from  his  subject  in  any  manner,  to 
express,  witli  winning  civilness,  his  great 
comfort  at  having  been  so  fortimate  as  to 
have  made  her  acquaintance — which  he 
thougiit  more  of  tlian  could  be  a  thousand 
Keniiworths — a  thrill  of  exquisite  rapture 
seemed  to  pass  through  her  whole  nature, 
and  she  would  return  her  thanks  for  such 
estimation  with  a  heartiness  that  showed 
clearly  whence  it  proceeded.  This  continu- 
ed as  they  remained  strolling  carelessly  along 
under  tliose  sliady  trees,  willaout  taking  the 


88 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


slightest  heed  of  time,  till  the  thickening  i 
shadows  gave  them  warning  how  long  they  ' 
had  dallied  with  the  hour.--.  Then  some  sign  | 
of  separation  became  manifest. 

"  JjCt  me  beg  one  favor  at  your  hands, 
ere  I  depart  from  your  sweet  presence," 
said  Sir  Valentine,  as  he  was  still  lingering 
by  her  side  near  the  park  gate. 

"  In  truth,  good  sir,  I  would  grant  you 
anj-thing  in  my  poor  power,"  answered  his 
fair  companion. 

"  It  is  but  to  know  your  name,"  added  he. 

"  O'  my  word  now,  good  sir,  liave  you  not 
known  it  all  this  time  ?"  inquired  she,  as  if 
in  some  little  surprise.  "  Surely  I  am  no 
other  than  ]\Iahel,  of  whom  all  persons,  me- 
thinks,  have  some  knowledge." 

"Mabel!"  repeated  the  young  knight, 
somewhat  to  himself  as  it  were,  yet  all  the 
time  gazing  on  the  ingenuous  countenance 
of  his  fair  partner,  as  though  he  was  conning 
it  for  some  pleasant  task, — then  added,  with 
a  deep  expression  in  the  words,  "  I  will  not 
forget  it." 

"  But  I  pray  you,  give  me  knowledge  of 
your  name!"  exclaimed  Mabel,  with  a  most 
pressing  earnestness,  "  an'  you  think  it  not 
over  bold  in  me  to  ask  such  a  thing  of  you  ; 
for  in  very  truth,  I  should  be  exceeding  glad 
to  know  it." 

"  1  am  called  Valentine  de  Largesse,"  re- 
plied he,  charmed  with  the  exquisite  fashion 
in  which  the  question  had  been  put  to  him. 

"  How  good  a  creature  !"  said  the  gentle 
girl  to  herself,  as  she  was  returning  home 
after  he  had  left  her.  "  Valentine  de  Lar- 
gesse ?  'Tis  a  name  that  meaneth  all 
honorableness  and  true  valor,  I  will  lie 
bound  for't." 

How  strange  of  Dame  Lucy  to  think  there 
could  be  evil  intent  in  any  such  ! 

This  was  not  the  only  meeting  they  had 
under  those  shady  trees.  Sir  Valentine  was 
too  well  pleased  with  his  last  interview  not 
to  desire  to  repeat  his  visit,  and  in  conse- 
quence of  his  friend  Sir  Reginald  being  ab- 
sent in  a  distant  part  of  the  country,  he  had 
such  leisure  as  enabled  him,  when  all  other 
circumstances  concurred,  to  realise  his  own 
wishes  as  often  as  he  would.  His  behavior 
began  imperceptibly  to  take  upon  it  the  cha- 
racter of  that  tender  gallantry,  with  which 
it  was  customary  among  the  more  chivalrous 
sort  of  gentlemen,  to  address  their  sovereign 
lady.  His  homage  knew  no  liounds — his 
respect  was  equally  witliout  limits,  and  his 
admiration,  though  the  jiowcrfulest  of  the 
three,  was  of  that  choice  sort  which  is 
shown  more  in  delicate  actions  than  in  a 
fair  commodity  of  terms.  These  attentions 
gave  the  gentle  Mabel  a  pride  in  herself  she 


had  never  experienced  before,  which  in- 
creased as  she  grew  more  familiar  with 
them.  As  it  made  progress  did  her  simpli- 
city diminish  ;  and  she  presently  took  such 
things,  albeit  they  had  once  been  so  new  to 
her,  as  if  they  were  what  she  looked  for, 
and  was  properly  entitled  to  receive. 

Yet  did  this  pride  sit  upon  her  as  grace- 
fully as  it  might  upon  the  noblest  lady  in 
the  land.  When  at  her  humble  duties,  she 
was  no  more  to  all  appearance  than  a  poor 
foundling ;  but  after  tiring  of  herself  with 
such  geiuiine  taste  as  to  make  her  poor  ap- 
parel look  more  becomingly  on  her,  than  re- 
gal garments  would  on  many  others,  she 
stood  by  the  side  of  Sir  Valentine  receiving 
his  devotions,  with  so  courtly  an  air  as  made 
her  seem  quite  another  creature.  Her  step 
was  firm,  her  brow  erect,  her  carriage  state- 
ly, and  her  look  spoke  of  such  proud  happi- 
ness as  a  noble  maiden  might  experience  in 
attracting  to  herself  the  exclusive  attentions 
of  some  princely  gallant.  At  such  times  it 
was  evident  she  had  lost  all  knowledge  of 
her  humble  fortunes.  Indeed  her  behavior 
was  of  such  a  sort  her  companion  not  only 
had  not  the  slighte.st  suspicion  she  was  of 
so  low  a  station — but  he  more  and  more 
marvelled  such  unmannerly  strange  persons 
as  Sir  Thomas  and  Dame  Lucy  appeared  to 
him — could  have  so  noble  a  daughter,  ila- 
bel  never  gave  the  matter  a  thought,  else, 
had  she  suspected  any  such  thing,  her  inge- 
nuous nature  would  have  led  her  to  unde- 
ceive him  on  the  instant.  She  was  gratified 
with  his  company  out  of  all  doubt,  but  she 
saw  nothing  beyond  the  present  moment ; 
and  although  these  meetings  were  clandes- 
tine, and,  as  she  had  good  reason  for  believ- 
ing, against  the  consent  of  the  old  knight 
and  his  lady,  as  there  appeared  no  offence 
in  what  she  did,  she  could  not  see  she  had 
done  any. 

It  was  her  good  fortune  during  all  this 
time  to  escape  suspicion  at  home — for  her 
well-disposedness  was  so  familiar  to  tliem 
that  her  conduct  was  never  inquired  into, 
and  as  her  great  trouble  and  annoyance, 
young  Lucy,  was  at  college,  she  was  in  tlie 
enjoyment  of  more  happiness  than  she  had 
known  her  whole  life  long.  I'ity  such  feli- 
city should  be  of  such  short  endurance.  But 
so  is  it  ever. — Nothing  is  certain  save  mi- 
certainty,  which  showeth  its  troublesome- 
ness  just  at  those  times  we  are  least  pre- 
pared to  put  uj)  with  it.  Often  and  often  is 
it  we  see  in  the  sweet  spring-time  of  the 
year,  a  goodly  tree  almo.st  hiil  beneatli  its 
innumer.ible  fair  blossoms,  giving  such  prodi- 
gal promise  of  fruit  as  maketh  the  owner's 
heart  leap  with  joy — a  frost  comoth  in  tlie 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


89 


night,  the  blossoms  are  nipped,  shrivelled, 
and  cast  off,  and  the  tree  reniaineth  with 
nothina:  but  barren  branches  for  all  that  sea- 
son. Methinks  the  knowledge  of  this  should 
keep  the  sanguine  from  too  steadfast  an  ex- 
pectation ;  but  what  availeth  all  knowledge 
against  disposition  ? — a  score  of  times  shall 
such  meet  with  the  terriblest  disappoint- 
ments, and  the  next  day  shall  find  them  hop- 
ing, trusting,  and  anticipating,  with  greater 
earnestness  than  ever.  This,  however, 
could  not  be  said  of  Mabel,  for  she  antici- 
pated nothing ;  and,  as  hath  been  said, 
looked  only  upon  the  present  moment.  She 
was  scarce  of  an  age  to  trouble  herself 
much  about  the  future,  and  the  extreme  hu- 
mility of  her  fortunes  kept  her  from  any- 
thing that  savored  of  ambition.  This  inno- 
cency  of  her  heart  was  her  best  buckler  in 
this  apparent  lack  of  foresight.  Proud  she 
was  it  cannot  be  denied,  but  hers  was  the 
pure  essence  of  pride,  and  not  the  dross. 

As  she  was  returning  from  her  usual 
stroll,  though  without  meeting  with  her 
usual  gratification,  she  came  upon  a  sight 
which  fixed  her  attention  so  profoundly  she 
could  not  stir  from  the  place.  It  was  in  the 
pleasant  twilight  of  the  first  month  of  au- 
tumn when  the  heated  air  fanned  by  the 
seasonable  breeze  was  growing  to  a  pleasant 
coolness,  and  the  rustling  groves  were  don- 
ning their  embroidered  livery.  Over  head 
was  all  of  a  clear  grey  save  in  the  west  a 
rich  copper  hue  was  visible  at  the  verge, 
gradually  fiiding  till  it  took  the  color  of  the 
surrounding  sky.  The  herbage  was  crisp 
and  short,  and  the  flowers  had  got  to  be  of 
some  rareness.  Low  upon  the  mossy  lap 
of  the  venerablest  oak  in  the  whole  grove, 
lay  a  youth  in  the  most  absolute  perfection 
of  youthful  symmetry.  Surely  he  might 
without  any  great  stretch  of  fancy,  have 
been  taken  for  that  lovely  boy  who  playeth 
such  vagaries  with  our  humanity,  as  poets 
feign  ;  and  she,  who  crept  to  him  on  tiptoe 
with  such  a  marvelling,  pleased,  and  cautious 
look  upon  her  exquisite  fair  features,  would 
have  made  an  admirable  representative  of 
that  divine  creature  the  spiritual  Psyche  of 
the  same  ideal  world.  He  slept — one  arm 
supporting  his  head  from  which  the  hat 
had  fallen,  the  other  holding  an  open  book. 
And  who  could  this  be  but  the  youthful 
Shakspeare  wearied  out  with  tlie  long  deep 
studiousness  he  now,  more  than  ever  in- 
dulged in.  She  however  had  no  knowledge 
of  who  it  was,  but  could  not  help  gazing 
with  a  pleasant  wonder  upon  the  pale 
thoughtful  brow,  and  delicately  beautiful 
countenance  of  the  young  sleeper. 
Ail  at  once  the  expression  of  her  features 


changed  exceedingly.  She  now  looked  all 
fear  and  terrible  anxiety.  The  cause  of 
this  was  she  beheld  a  hornet  hovering  over 
his  face,  seeming  every  moment  as  if  it 
would  alight  on  the  half  closed  lips,  whose 
luscious  richness  of  color  doubtless  tempted 
it  thereto.  Mabel  was  in  an  agony  of  dread 
that  the  touch  of  the  insect  would  cause  the 
young  student  to  start,  and  so  he  would  get 
stung  :  and  she  dared  not  seek  to  wake  him 
from  a  like  fear.  So  there  stood  she,  bend- 
ing with  extreme  anxiousness,  and  anon 
shrinking  back  with  horrible  affright.  This 
continued  for  some  moments,  with  increasing 
alarm  on  her  part,  when  with  such  a  lively 
sense  of  joy  as  had  visited  her  but  seldom, 
she  beheld  the  hornet  take  its  departure 
without  doing  of  any  mischief.  She  lingered 
a  moment  longer,  half  inclined  to  wake  the 
sleeper,  and  tell  him  of  his  danger,  but  as 
she  could  not  bring  upon  herself  to  break 
such  sweet  slumbers  as  he  appeared  to  en- 
joy, she  presently  turned  away  and  contin- 
ued her  walk. 

She  knew  not  all  this  while  that  she  was 
narrowly  watched  by  two  persons,  who, 
creeping  from  tree  to  tree  with  such  cau- 
tiousness as  might  prevent  their  approach  be- 
ing noticed,  followed  her  closely  as  she  went. 
"  'Tis  her !"  whispered  one,  drawing 
close  to  the  other. 

"  Let  her  get  to  the  next  clump  of  trees, 
and  then  upon,"  answered  the  other,  in  the 
same  low  voice.  They  then  separated 
again,  and  crept  along  as  before  till  tiiey 
had  passed  the  sleeper  some  paces,  and 
were  rapidly  but  cautiously  advancing  upon 
the  object  of  their  so  much  regard,  when 
Mabel  turning  round  to  take  a  last  glance 
at  the  sleeping  student,  to  her  monstrous 
surprise  and  alarm,  found  two  strange  men 
close  upon  her  foot-steps. 

"  I  pray  you  come  with  us,  sweet  dam- 
sel," said  one  of  them,  whom  she  immedi- 
ately recognized  as  her  treacherous  gallant 
at  Kenilworth.  "  We  will  do  you  no  sort 
of  harm  should  you  come  quietly — for  we 
are  of  your  friends,  anxious  to  lead  you  to 
such  great  good  fortune  as  falleth  to  the  lot 
of  few.  But  if  you  show  any  unwilling- 
ness," added  he,  seizing  her  firmly  by  the 
wrist,  seeing  she  evinced  an  evident  reluc- 
tance to  be  of  his  company — "  Or  make  any 
outcry,  we  shall  be  forced  to  use  such  means 
to  compel  you,  as  you  would  find  of  the 
roughest." 

"  Unhand  me,  sirrah  !"  cried  Mabel,  in- 
dignantly, striving  to  free  her  from  his  hold. 
'•  I  have  seen  enough  of  you  to  wish  for  no 
farther  acquaintance,  and  will  go  with  you 
on  no  account." 


do 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  Then  we  must  e'en  take  to  making  yon, 
sweetest,"  replied  he,  catching  her  up  in  his 
arms,  as  though  he  would  carry  her  away, 
which  set  her  to  screaming  and  struggling 
with  all  her  might.  At  this  moment,  awaken- 
ed by  tiie  scream,  the  youthful  Shakspcare 
started  from  his  sleep,  and  to  his  extreme 
consternation  belield  the  fair,  object  of  his 
most  i)leasant  dream  borne  away  from  him, 
struggling  in  the  arms  of  some  rude  villain. 

"Hold,  caitiff,  on  thy  life!"  shouted  he, 
starting  after  them,  with  such  speed  of  foot 
as  soon  brought  them  within  his  reacii,  but 
just  as  ho  had  bravely  seized  the  ravisher 
by  the  collar  of  his  doublet,  he  was  felled  to 
the  earth  by  a  blow  from  a  heavy  riding 
whip  the  other  villain  had  with  him.  The 
two  then  made  what  haste  they  could  with 
their  burthen,  despite  her  cries  and  resist- 
ance, till  they  came  to  their  horses  under 
some  adjoining  trees.  The  gallant  got  on 
one  holding  Mabel  before  him,  then  when 
his  comj)anion  was  mounted,  both  rode 
across  the  country, at  a  pace  which  speedily 
took  them  out  of  sight  of  that  neighborhood. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

O  fortune,  now  rny  wounds  redress, 

And  help  me  from  my  smart. 
It  Cometh  well  of  gentleness, 
To  ease  a  mourning  liearte. 

Old  Song. 
Away  with  these  self-loving  lads, 
Whom  with  cupid's  arrow  never  glads  ! 
Away  poor  souls  tliat  sigh  and  weep 
In  love  of  those  that  lie  asleep ! 
For  Cupid  is  a  merry  god, 
And  forcelh  none  to  kiss  the  rod. 

Lord  Brooke. 

These  strange  and  sudden  injuries  have  fallen 

So  thick  upon  me,  lh;it  I  lose  ail  sense 

Of  what  tliey  are.  Metliinks  I  am  not  wronged  ; 

Nor  is  it  aught,  if  from  the  censuring  world 

I  can  but  hide  it.     Reputation  ! 

Thou  art  a  wed,  no  more. 

Beal'-mont  and  Fletcher. 

O.v  recovering  consciou.^.;ness,  the  youth- 
ful Shakspeare  found  himself  lying  stretched 
on  the  grass,  with  a  confused  sense  of  pain 
and  sickness,  which  prevented  him  from 
forming  any  distinct  idea  of  where  he  was. 
He  could  just  discern  divers  black  masses  of 
sundry  siiapes,  moving  around  and  about 
liim,  wliilst  above,  myriads  of  stars  were 
twiidding  upon  the  surface  of  the  surround- 
ing sky  ;  a  thick  white  haze  floated  over  the 
grassy  earth  as  far  as  lie  could  see ;  and 
not  a  sound,  save  the  rustling  of  the  leaves, 


[  — which  at  first  came  upon  his  ear  with  a 
I  most  unnatural  strangenes.s — could  be  heard. 
I  His  earliest  perception  was  that  the  ground 
j  was  wet  with  the  dews,  and  he  almost  im- 
mediately   afterwards   discovered   that   his 
clothes  were  saturated  with  the  same  mois- 
I  ture.     This  made  him  make  an  immediate 
!  attempt  to  rise,   whereupon  he  felt  tliat  his 
'.  limbs  were  stiiF  and  aching.     Sitting,  sup- 
'  porting  himself  by  one  anu,  he  strove  to  as- 
certain where  he  was;  but  everything  upon 
which  he  turned  his  eyes  iloated  in  such 
shadowy   outline  he   could  distinguish  no- 
thing ;  and  so  fearful   a  pain  was  in   his 
head,  he  was  forced  to  lean  it  upon  his  hand 
as  he  rested  his  elbow  on  his  lap.     He  then 
ibund  his  brows  covered  with   a   clammy 
moisture,  which  stuck  to  his  palm  with  a 
peculiar  unpleasantness,  and  an  overpower- 
ing sense  of  sickness  prevented  him  from 
attempting  to  regain  his  feet.     In  tliis  posi- 
tion, and  with  these  sensations,  he  remained 
for  some  time. 

Nature  appeared  in  the  rising  dews  be- 
neath the  starry  canopy,  like  to  some  mighty 
empress  lying  in  her  shroud  under  a  jeweled 
pall ;  but  this  awful  magnificence  was  now 
lost  upon  him,  who  at  any  other  time  would 
have  seen  and  felt  it  more  thoroughly  than 
could  any  other.  In  his  present  state  she 
might  have  put  on  herself  her  proudest 
apparelling,  and  he  vrould  ha\e  j)aid  no  more 
heed  to  it  than  if  he  had  had  no  foreknow- 
ledge of  her  visible  existence  ;  and  for  the 
time  being,  in  his  comprehension  not  only 
all  this  glorious  garnishing  in  which  he  had 
oft  taken  such  exquisite  delight,  was  utterly 
done  away  with,  but  that  absolute  and  un- 
rivaled Beauty,  whose  infinite  attractions  so 
set  off,  had  "bound  his  spirit  to  her  will, 
seemed  to  have  suffered  a  perfect  dissolu- 
tion into  the  elements  from  which  she 
sprung  ;  and  had  at  once  become  a  darkness 
— a  ciiaos — and  a  nothing.  This,  however, 
as  must  be  manifest  to  all,  was  a  mere  fan- 
tasy. The  chaos  lay  in  tiie  mind,  and  not 
in  Nature ;  who,  however  funereally  she 
may  choose  to  army  herself,  hath  a  per- 
petual life,  that  cannot  be  made  the  property 
either  of  Time  or  Death.  All  the  singular 
fine  faculties  and  curious  conceptions  of  tlio 
young  student,  in  the  state  of  hab-con- 
sciousness  in  which  he  now  existed,  were 
as  if  they  had  never  been ;  and  in  intelli- 
gence— alack  that  there  should  be  so  hu- 
nuliating  a  truth, — a  sudden  visitation  of 
physical  pain  had  reduced  the  promising 
scholar  below  the  level  of  the  most  unlettered 
hind. 

At  last  he  managed  to  raise  himself  upon 
his  feet,  and  leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


91 


tree  close  by  which  he  had  fallen.  He 
looked  around,  and  it  appeared  as  though 
everything  wore  an  unfamiliar  and  unfriend- 
ly countenance  ;  helplesr-  and  faint  with 
pain,  he  turned  his  a[)pealing  gaze  to  those 
fair  ministers  on  high,  who  at  such  num- 
berless occasions,  had  looked  down  so  invit- 
ingly on  his  meditations  ;  but  tlioy  seemed 
at  this  present  to  regard  him  with  a  cold  in- 
difference which  struck  a  chill  to  his  heart. 
He  felt  weaker  and  weaker  every  moment ; 
the  mists  appeared  to  be  thickening  around 
him  so  that  he  could  scarce  breathe  ;  the 
tree  passed  away  from  his  touch ;  the 
ground  slipped  from  under  his  feet ;  and 
with  a  look  of  anginsh  that  was  a  most  deep 
reproach  unto  Nature  for  having  so  aban- 
doJied  him  in  his  extremity,  he  again  fell  out 
of  all  sign  of  existence. 

At  this  moment,  lights  were  seen  in  the 
distance,  and  a  confused  shouting  of  men 
and  barking  of  dogs  was  plainly  audible. 
Amid  this  the  name  of  Mabel  might  be  dis- 
tinguished, called  out  by  several  different 
voices,  and  other  cries,  which  proved  that 
the  party  were  in  search  of  the  poor  found- 
ling. 

"Mabel !"  shouted  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
some  yards  off,  as  loud  as  he  could  for  the 
wrapper  his  careful  dame  had  put  around 
his  throat  to  protect  him  I'rom  the  damp  mist. 
'•  Murrain  on  the  wench,  what  hath  become 
of  her  T  wonder." 

"  Hoy  !"  bawled  out  a  stout  old  game- 
keeper for  the  space  of  nigh  half  a  minute, 
carrying  of  a  la^ntern,  which  great  cry  of  his 
brought  on  such  a  fit  of  coughing  there 
seemed  to  be  no  end  of  it. 

"  Prithee  when  we  return,  good  Sampson, 
ask  some  of  my  julep  of  me,"  said  Dame 
Lucy,  who  prided  herself  hugely  on  her  skill 
in  medicaments,  and  was  ever  as  anxious  to 
lay  hold  of  a  patient  as  was  any  'pothecary  in 
the  land  ;  "  'tis  famous  for  the  cure  of  all 
manner  of  coughs,  asthmatics,  quinsies,  cold, 
hoarseness,  and  other  diseases  of  the  like 
sort, — so  if  thou  wilt  take  it  steadily  it  can- 
not help  to  be  a  sovereign  remedy  for  thy 
asthma." 

"  Ay,  mistress,  an'  it  please  you,"  replied 
Sampson,  although  he  knew  full  well  the 
virtues  of  that  same  julep,  having  had  it  put 
upon  him  for  a  good  score  years,  let  him 
liave  whatever  complaint  he  might. 

"  A  fig  for  such  villainous  stuff!"  ex- 
claimed Sir  Thomas ;  '•  Til  cure  thy  asth- 
matics, I'll  warrant  !  When  I  was  at 
college,  I  was  as  famous  for  my  studies  in 
medicine  as  was  any  physician  of  them  all. 
Indeed,  I  got  me  the  name  of  little  Escula- 
pius,  I  had  acquired  sucli  great  cunnino-  in 


it.  There  was  no  sucli  cures  ever  heard  of 
as  I  have  made.  But  it  led  me  so  into  the 
playing  of  tricks,  that  I  was  obliged  to  .give 
it  up  or  I  should  have  been  expelled  for  my 
many  mischiefs.  Oh,  the  love  powders  I 
have  made  that  distressed  damsels  came  to 
me  for  !  Oh,  the  wonderful  charmed  phil- 
tres, and  magical  elixirs,  I  have  given  them 
for  bringing  back  their  stray  lovers.  By 
cock  and  pye,  I  tickled  them  so  with  my 
stuff,  that  if  a  man  of  any  kind,  whatever  he 
might  lack  in  handsomeness,  did  but  show 
himself  in  the  High  Street,  women  of  all 
ages,  sorts,  and  conditions,  rushed  from 
every  house  with  a  monstrous  uncontrollable 
eagerness,  intent  upon  the  having  him 
whether  he  would  or  no." 

"  By'r  lady,  I  never  heard  this  before,  Sir 
Thomas  !"  cried  his  dame,  in  some  surprise, 
yet  in  the  fullest  conviction  here  was  an- 
other wonderful  proof  of  her  husband's  ex- 
traordinary rare  wisdom.  "  Believe  me, 
hp.d  I  known  of  it,  I  would  have  asked  your 
advice  numberless  times  when  I  have  not." 

"  Mabel  !"  shouted  the  knight  again,  and 
again  Sampson  set  up  a  prolonged  cry,  and 
half  choked  himself  in  the  midst  of  it,  and 
two  dogs  they  had  with  them  recommenced 
barking,  as  if  they  thought  their  voices 
stood  as  good  a  chance  of  being  recognized 
by  their  kind  friend,  the  poor  foundling,  as 
any. 

"  Plague  on't !"  exclaimed  Sir  Thomas  ; 
"  I  am  nigh  hoarse  with  bawling  ;  and  de- 
spite of  our  mufflers  and  other  covering,  I 
doubt  not  we  shall  have  terrible  colds  from 
wandering  about  here  when  the  dew  is  so 
thick." 

"  Ay,  Master  Justice,"  observed  the  game- 
keeper, scarce  ceasing  one  minute  to  give 
evidence  this  coming  out  agreed  not  with 
his  asthma. 

"  I  marvel  she  should  serve  us  this  way," 
added  the  knight,  after  anotlier  call  from 
him,  another  broken-winded  cry  from  his 
man,  and  another  famous  howl  from  the  two 
dogs,  with  as  little  success  as  had  attended 
them  all  along  ;  "  I  hope  no  harm  hath  come 
to  her." 

"  By  my  troth  a  thought  strikes  me  !" 
cried  Dame  Lucy,  suddenly  coming  to  a 
full  stop  in  her  walk,  to  the  exceeding  as- 
tonishment of  the  justice  and  his  man. 

"  Marry,  I  hope  'twill  strike  thee  hard 
enough  to  tell  us  what  'tis  about,  dame," 
said  her  husband  merrily. 

"  Doubtless  that  pestilent  fine  fellow  hath 
run  away  with  her,"  added  she,  as  if  horror- 
struck  at  the  idea. 

"  Ey,  who  ?  What  fine  fellow  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  knight,  rapidly ;  "  run  away 


92 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SnAKSPE.\RE. 


with  a  servant  of  a  justice  o'  the  peace  ! 
'Slight  I  'tis  as  heinous  a  matter  as  sheep- 
steaUng !  But  who's  the  villain?  'Fore 
George  ;  if  he  be  a  low  person,  he  shall 
swing  for't ;  and  if  he  be  one  of  any  sort  of 
quality,  I'll  make  a  Star-Chamber  matter 
on't.  I  will  be  no  roarer  of  coneys  for  other 
men's  catching,  I  promise  you."  And  there- 
upon he  thumped  the  ground  with  the  end 
of  his  stick  a  most  determined  blow. 

Nay,  good  heart,  be  not  in  so  deadly  a 
passion,"  cried  the  good  da:ao,  earnestly. 

"Passion!"  bawled  the  justice,  in  a 
louder  voice,  and  see:iiir.gly  in  an  increased 
rage.  "Wounds;  but  mcihinks  here  is 
fine  occasion  for  it.  It  is  but  fitting  I  should 
be  in  a  passion — in  a  horrible,  tearing  pas- 
sion, at  such  a  villainous  affront  as  this. 
O'  my  life,  I  sliould  be  monstrous  glad  now 
to  do  some  deadly  mischief."  And  at  this 
he  pulled  his  rapier  a  little  out  of  the  sheath, 
and  then  sent  it  back  with  a  whang  tliat 
sounded  fearfully  to  his  alarmed  wife,  and 
astonished  game-keeper. 

"  J  pray  you,  take  not  on  so  murderously,  I 
Sir  Thomas,"  cried  the  good  dame.  | 

"  Valor  o'  me  !  tell  me  this  caitiff  on  the  j 
instant  I"  exclaimed  the  knight,  in  a  voice 
that  appeared  to  admit  of  no  dallying. 

"  He  was  one  of  those  who  made  them- 
selves so  busy  with  Mabel  whilst  we  were 
at  Kenilworth,"  replied  the  old  lady,  trem- 
blingly ;  "  but  he  cannot  be  a  tit  object  for 
the  receivintr  of  your  just  indignation." 

"  Ha  !  Is  it  so  ?"  cried  Sir  Thomas,  in 
no  way  abating  the  torriblencss  of  his  anger. 
"  O'  my  word,  I  did  suspect  them  of  no  good. 
'Twas  a  trick  I'll  wager  my  life  on't — a 
cozening  trick  to  get  them  into  my  good- 
will ;  but  I  go  not  so  easily  into  a  trap,  I 
promise  you.  I  saw  the  bait,  and  did  mia- 
gine  the  mischief  oa  the  instant.  How 
dost  feel  so  certain  one  of  them  hath  carried 
off  our  Mabel  ?"  asked  lie,  and  at  this 
the  good  dame  up  and  told,  how  one  day 
she  was  walking  with  Mabel  in  the  park, 
and  they  were  accosted  by  these  same  fine 
fellows  with  a  marvellous  show  of  delicate 
behavior;  but  she,  giving tiiem  instant  proof 
she  was  not  to  bo  deceived  by  their  crafti- 
ness, they  departed  from  her  presence  with 
more  speed  than  they  had  come  in  it.  Then 
the  knight  became  more  brave  in  his  speech 
than  ever,  and  was  talking  very  largely  iiow 
he  would  have  driven  them  both  out  of  his 
grounds  at  the  very  point  of  his  rapier,  had 
he  been  in  her  company  at  that  time,  when 
his  attention  was  sudd(>nly  diverted  from  the 
subject  in  hand,  by  a  strange  barking  of  the 
dogs  a  little  in  advance  of  them.     Sampson 


made  haste  to  the  spot,  with  his  lantern  to 
see  what  it  meant. 

"  Perchance  the  dogs  have  found  her," 
observed  I)ame  Liicy ;  and  it  may  be  she 
hath  been  taken  with  a  fit,  or  sudden  swoon- 
ing, and  so  could  get  no  further." 

"  Murder  !"  cried  Sampson  as  loud  as  lie 
could,  upon  catching  a  glance,  by  aid  of  the 
light  he  carried,  of  what  appeared  to  be  a 
dead  body. 

"  Oh,  the  poor  wench !"  exclaimed  the  good 
dame  in  very  doleful  accents. 

"  What  dost  say,  knave  ?"  inquired  the 
knight,  in  somewhat  of  a  trepidation. 

"  Here's  a  horrid  mangle  !"  bawled  the 
serving-man,  gazing  with  real  terror  on  the 
blood-stained  face  of  the  youthful  Shak- 
speare. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  go.  Sir  Thomas  I"  cried 
his  dame  in  a  nervous  apprehension,  cling- 
ing tightly  to  his  arm.  "  Perchance  the 
murderers  may  not  be  far  away.  Keep 
down  thy  valor,  dear  heart,  1  prithee  !  Nay, 
sweet  life,  thou  shalt  go  on  no  account ! 
Thy  brave  spirit  will  lead  thee  to  some  hurt 
— thou  hast  no  occasion  to  be  so  exceeding 
valiant.  Remember,  chuck  !  thou  art  get- 
ting to  be  old,  and  no  fit  match,  for  I  know 
not  how  many  monstrous  horrible  cut-throat 
villains  who  may  be  lurking  about." 

'•  Shall  a  justice  o'  the  peace  stand  play- 
ing of  mum-chance,  when  murder  stalks 
abroad  ?"  exclaimed  Sir  Thomas,  who,  be- 
lieving that  the  supposed  villains  must  by 
this  liave  got  them  to  some  place  of  safety, 
had  drawn  his  rapier,  and  was  advancing 
with  a  marvellous  show  of  resolution  as  last 
as  Dame  Lucy  would  allow  him.  "  Must 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  knight  of  tiie  shire,  and 
late  sheriff  of  the  county,  hide  his  valor, 
when  deadly  mischief  is  doing  on  his  own 
land!  Dame  !  dame  I  I  will  not  be  hinder- 
ed ;  I  feel  as  full  of  light  as  a  drawn  badger 
— my  valor  must  spend  itself.  Where  are 
the  monstrous  pitiful  caitifis  that  have  done 
this  mischief?  'Fore  George  !  I  will  slay 
them  every  man !" 

"  Hodge  I  Anthony  I  David  !"  cried  liis 
dame  urgently  to  divers  of  the  serving-men 
and  keepers  who  were  at  a  little  distance 
behind.  "  Help  me  hold  thy  master.  Here 
is  a  foul  murder  done  upon  poor  Mabel,  and 
he  is  so  moved,  he  must  needs  be  attacking 
of  all  the  murderers  at  once.'"  The  men 
came  \ip  in  wonderful  tribulation  at  hearing 
of  the  fate  of  the  gentle  foundling  ;  and  witii 
pressing  entreaties  to  tiieir  master  he  would 
not  wilfully  seek  iiis  own  death.  They 
sought  to  liuld  him  fast ;  but  the  more  he 
was  held,  the  more  boldly  he  threatened.  At 
last  ttiey  all  arrived  at  tlie  spot  wliere  Samp- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


93 


son  and  the  dogs  were  examining  with  ex- 
treme ciiriousness  the  body  of  our  young 
scholar. 

"  Ha  !  how  is  this  ?"  exclaimed  the  knight 
m  exceeding  astonishment,  as  soon  as  he  be- 
held the  yoimg  Shakspeare,  by  the  aid  of  the 
lanterns.  "  This  is  no  Mabel ;  this  is  some 
boy  or  another." 

"  I  warrant  you,  master,  observed  one  of 
the  men  gladly,  "our  Mabel  hath  darker 
hair." 

"  And  she  wore  not  jerkins  of  any  kind," 
said  another. 

"  Nor  trunks,  that  ever  I  saw,"  added  a 
third. 

"  'Tis  not  our  Mabel,  out  of  all  doubt !" 
cried  Dame  Lucy,  gazing  upon  the  motion- 
less body  with  mingled  feelings  of  awe  and 
curiousness.  "  I  never  gave  her  to  wear  any 
such  clothes  as  these  ;  and  such  as  she  had 
of  me  for  lier  apparelling  were  lionest  gowns 
of  a  sober  color,  with  petticoats  of  a  proj)er  j 
stuff,  blue  hose,  and  shoes  of  a  fair  strength, 
with  a  round  hat,  for  every  day  ;   and  then 

for  Sundays " 

"  Gog's  wouns  ! — he  lives,  master  !"  hur- 
riedly exclaimed  Sampson,  who  had  lifted 
up  the  head  of  the  supposed  corpse,  and  feel- 
ing him  move,  could  not  forbear  crying  out 
— the  which  completely  put  a  stop  to  the 
dame's  account  of  her  handmaid's  wardrobe. 
"  Mass  !  he  breathes,  sure  enough,"  ob- 
served Hodge  ;  "  and  that,  as  I  have  been 
told,  be  an  excellent  sign  of  life." 

"  Nay,  as  I  live,  he  openeth  his  eyes  !" 
cried  Anthony. 

"  And  now  he  be  a  moving  of  his  fingers  !" 
added  David  with  a  like  marvelling ;  and  then 
all  watched  with  a  famous  interest  the  symp- 
toms of  returning  consciousness  in  the 
wounded  youth.  The  justice  was  some- 
what puzzled  what  to  do  in  so  strange  a 
case.  Here  was  a  murdered  person  coming 
to  life,  and  no  sign  of  Mabel  was  to  be  seen 
any  where.  He  thought  it  was  exceeding 
suspicious  ;  and  then  believing  he  had  given 
sufficient  evidence  of  his  valiant  spirit,  he 
sheathed  his  rapier,  took  his  stick  from  one 
of  the  men  who  had  picked  it  up  on  coming 
along,  and  leaning  on  it,  kept  considering 
how  he  should  behave.  In  the  meanwhile, 
William  Shaks])eare,  with  all  the  lanterns 
bearing  upon  his  face,  was  looking  upon 
those  around  him,  greatly  bewildered,  yet 
beginning  to  have  some  confused  ideas  of 
where  he  was,  and  what  brought  him  there. 
Nevertheless,  the  faces,  as  far  as  he  could 
distinguish,  were  unfamiliar  to  him.  He 
felt  weak,  and  ever  and  anon  gave  a  strong 
shudder,  as  though  his  blood  was  chilled  by 
BO  long  lying  in  the  dew  and  the  night  air. 


"  Methinks  he  hath  on  him  something  of 
an  ague,"  observed  Dame  Lucy.  "Could  we 
get  him  home  with  us,  now,  some  of  my  ju- 
lep would  do  him  famous  good  service,  I 
warrant  you." 

"  Humph  !"  cried  Sir  Thomas,  gazing  up- 
on the  stranger  with  a  terrible  penetrating 
look,  upon  hearing  of  this  hint  of  the  good 
dame,  backed  by  assurances  of  its  efficacy 
from  each  of  the  serving-men. 

"  An'  it  please  you,  sweet  lady,"  said  the 
youthful  Shakspeare,  faintly  addressing 
Dame  Lucy,  emboldened  to  it  by  the  evi- 
dence he  had  just  heard  of  her  considerate- 
ness  for  him,  "  I  beseech  you  tell  me  am  I  not 
still  in  the  park  of  his  good  worship,  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy  ?" 

"  That  are  you,  beyond  all  question,"  re- 
plied she  very  courteously,  for  she  was  well 
pleased  with  the  civilness  with  which  the 
question  had  been  put  to  her. 

"  Ay,  you  be  just  upon  the  very  middle  of 
Fairmead  Grove,  my  young  master,"  added 
one  of  the  men. 

"  1  thought  I  could  not  help  being  at  the 
same  place,"  observed  the  youth. 

•'  But  how  didst  come  to  that  place,  and 
wh.at  dost  do  at  that  place  at  so  late  an 
hour '.'"  asked  the  justice,  in  a  style  that  sa- 
vored wondroUf^ly  of  a  disposition  in  him  to 
doubt  the  honesty  of  the  person  lie  question- 
ed. Thereupon  William  Shakspeare,  vv^ith- 
out  acquainting  any  with  the  reason  of  his 
visit  to  the  park,  told  tlie  knight  how  lie  had 
been  a  witness  to  the  carrying  off  of  Mabel 
by  two  villains,  and  how  when  striving  to. 
stop  one,  he  was  felled  to  the  earth  by  the 
other. 

"  So  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Thomas,  looking 
with  more  severity  than  ever,  "  Thou  hast 
got  a  fine  story  ;  but  I  doubt  'twill  do  thee 
any  good  at  assize."  Just  as  the  knight 
had  uttered  this,  the  youth  gave  a  sudden 
start  upon  noting  for  the  first  time  his  hands 
were  covered  with  blood,  which  discovery, 
and  the  manner  of  his  behavior  at  that  mo- 
ment, was  well  observed  by  the  justice. — 
"  Ha  !"  cried  he,  "  How  didst  get  thyself  so 
dabbled  ?  Dost  tell  that  cozening  tale  to  me 
when  thy  hands  and  face  bear  evidence  thou 
hast  murdered  our  Mabel  !" 

"  Murdered  her !"  exclaimed  William,  in 
extreme  astonishment.  "  Believe  me  I  would 
much  rather  have  died  in  her  rescue." 

"  1  believe  thee  fellow  !"  cried  the  justice, 
with  extreme  emphasis.  "  O'  my  life,  I  do 
believe  thee  to  be  a  most  notorious  horrible 
villain  !  But  how  didst  get  thyself  in  so  sus- 
picious a  way  ?  answer  me  that.  The  truth, 
fellow,  the  truth." 

"  As  for  what  I  see  on  my  hand,"  ob- 


94 


TIIE  YOUTH  OF  SH-\KSPEARE. 


served  the  youth,  "  I  am  as  much  surprised 
at  it  as  yourself  can  be  :  but  on  reflection, 
methinks  'tis  easy  to  be  accounted  for." 

'■Is't,  indeed  ?"  replied  the  knight.  "  Mftr- 
ry,  I  doubt  it  hugely." 

"  Doubtless  tlio  blow  I  received  hath  mad(^ 
a  \vound,"  continued  the  other.  "  And  hold- 
ing my  aching  head  awhile,  hatli  brought  my 
hand  to  the  state  you  see." 

"  Heart  o'  me  !  here  be  a  wound,  indeed, 
master,"'  cried  Sampson,  closely  examining 
the  head  of  the  suspected  person  by  the  aid  of 
his  lantern. 

•'  By'r  lady,  and  so  there  is  !"  added 
Dame  Lucy.  "  I  would  he  were  where  I 
could  apply  to  it  some  of  my  famous  julep  ; 
'tis  the  sovereignest  thing  on  eartli  for  a 
green  wound." 

With  the  friendly  assistance  of  the  serv- 
ing men,  with  whom  there  was  not  a  doubt 
remaining  of  his  perfect  innocency,  William 
Shakspeare  stood  upon  his  feet,  and  presently 
missed  the  book  he  had  been  studying  be- 
fore he  fell  asleep  under  the  tree.  The 
justice,  somewhat  perplexed  in  his  notions, 
stood  regarding  him  with  a  most  scrutiniz- 
ing look. 

"  Wliat  dost  want  looking  about  so  ?"  in- 
quired he. 

•'  A  book,  an'  it  please  your  worship," 
answered  the  other.  "  A  book  of  sweet  po- 
ems I  was  intent  upon  studying,  before  I 
beheld  her  you  called  Mabel  being  carried 
away,  screaming  in  the  arms  of  a  villain." 

"  1  did  kick  my  foot  against  something 
not  a  moment  since,"  said  Dame  Lucy  ; 
"  Perchance  that  may  be  it."  Hearing  this, 
the  serving  men  and  keepers  looked  careful- 
ly about  with  their  lanterns. 

"  Thou  saidst  nought  about  her  screaming 
just  now,"  observed  the  justice  sternly,  upon 
whom  this  addition  came  with  a  very  mar- 
velloas  suspiciousness.  "  But  tell  us  who 
thou  are — they  name,  fellow — they  name  ?'" 

'•  My  name  is  William  Shakspeare,"  an- 
swered the  youth. 

"  What,  John  Shakspcarc's  son,  of  Strat- 
ford ?"  asked  Sir  Thomas  cjuicldy. 

"  The  same,  an"  it  ])leasu  your  worship." 

"  Then  'tis  clear — tis  manifest — 'tis  most 
absolute  and  undeniable,  fellow  !"  exclaimed 
the  justice,  with  a  severity  greater  than  all 
he  had  yet  shown.  "  Mass,  I  thougiit  I  could 
not  suspect  tiiee  without  warrantable  assur- 
ance. Thy  name  proves  it.  If  thou  hast 
not  committed  this  foul  murder,  I  will  be 
sworn  an  ass  all  the  rest  of  my  days.  Thou 
hast  a  most  discreditable  name,  fellow.  I 
know  not  a  name  of  such  ill  repute  that  can 
be  found  anywhere.  'Tis  a  bad  name  ;  and 
being  a  bad  name  must  needs  be  an  ill  name ; 


an  1  being  an  ill  name  cannot  help  being  a 
name  that  a  man  shall  chance  to  go  to  the 
hangman  witli." 

"  Here's  the  book,  sure  enough,"  cried  one 
of  the  serving-men. 

"  Book  me  no  books,"  said  the  knight 
sharply,  who.se  remembrance  of  what  had 
been  told  him  by  Master  Buzzard,  made  him 
careless  of  this  new  proof  of  the  youth's  in- 
nocence. "  Take  him  away  !  I  will  look 
into  this  matter  witii  more  strictness.  God's 
precious,  so  notorious  a  name  no  man  ever 
had  !  But  let  me  examine  the  same  book  of 
which  he  hath  spoken  so  conhdcntly."  Hav- 
ing got  it  in  his  hand,  the  justice  had  a  lan- 
tern held  to  him  and  scrutinized  it  very  nar- 
rowly. 

"  Ha  1  O'  my  life  I  thought  as  much  !" 
added  he,  looking  from  the  book  to  the  sup- 
posed murderer.  '•  Thou  hast  stolen  it.  Here 
is  in  it  the  name  of  Sir  Mannaduke  de  Lar- 
gesse." 

"  He  lent  it  me,  as  he  hatli  done  many 
other,"  replied  Wilham  Shakspeare. 

"  He  lend  thee,  fellow  !"  cried  the  knight 
disdainfully.  '•  A  person  of  his  quality  lend 
books  to  so  horrible  low  a  person  as  the  son 
of  John  Shakspeare.  How  dost  dare  put  so 
impudent  an  assertion  on  a  justice  o'  tlie 
peace !  Llass,  'tis  manifest  thou  art  a  most 
thorough  villain  by  thy  name — "tis  as  clear 
thou  hast  stolen  this  book,  and  doubtless 
many  others  by  thy  professions — and  there 
is  no  doubt  thou  hast  done  a  foul  nnirdcr  by 
thy  being  in  tlie  neighborhood  at  t!ie  time 
the  wench  was  missing,  and  found  here  un- 
der such  suspicious  circumstances.  Bring 
him  along,  Sampson.  Thou  art  my  close 
prisoner.  I  charge  tlice  escape  on  thy  peril." 

Our  young  student,  to  his  exceeding  as- 
tonishment, found  himself  taken  into  custo- 
dy ;  but  to  be  accused  of  destroying  that  ex- 
quisite fair  creature  who  had  so  long  been 
the  exclusive  subject  of  his  sweetest  medita- 
tions, appeared  to  him  so  unnatural  a  thing, 
he  could  scarce  believe  it  possible  it  could  be 
thought  of  for  a  single  moment.  Confused 
as  he  was  by  the  effects  of  the  blow,  and 
still  more  bewildered  by  the  behavior  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  his  aiiprehcnsious  for  the 
safety  of  the  gentle  Mabel  completely  thrust 
aside"  everything  like  fear  for  himself,  and  all 
the  way  to  the  house  he  did  nothing  but 
think  of  the  possible  dangers  she  might  be 
exposed  to  in  the  hands  of  those  desperate 
villains  he  had  beheld  carrying  of  her  off. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  mansion,  he  was  led 
up  stairs  into  a  room  where  there  was  no 
possibility  of  escaping ;  and  Dame  Lucy 
presently  came  and  washed  his  wound,  ap- 
plied to  it  some  of  her  lamous  julep,  and  put 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


95 


on  it  a  clean  bandage,  for  altliougli,  as  a  wife, 
she  would  not  for  a  moment  doubt  of  the 
correctness  of  her  husband's  opinion,  slie 
could  Jiot  allow  such  an  opinion,  bad  as  it 
was,  to  interfere  with  the  wounded  youth's 
receiving  tiie  advantage  of  her  skill  in  re- 
medies. 

It  was  a  small  chamber,  with  a  standing 
bed  in  it,  whereon  was  a  fair  coverlet  of  the 
dame's  needle  work.  A  little  table,  with 
materials  for  washing,  stood  close  at  hand, 
wijich  had  evidently  been  in  use  ;  and  be- 
side them  were  sundry  towels,  pieces  of 
cloth  for  bandage,  bottles,  scissors,  and  the 
like  necessary  sort  of  things  lor  the  dress- 
ing of  a  wound.  The  dame  sat,  with  a  fa- 
mous serious  aspect,  in  an  arm  chair,  at  the 
side  of  the  table,  fastening  the  bandage  on 
the  head  of  her  patient,  who  knelt  down  at 
her  feet.  Close  by  the  suspected  murderer, 
holding  a  candle,  stood  a  comely  little  dam- 
sel, whose  bright  eyes  had  gradually  lost 
that  fearfulness  with  which  she  at  first  re- 
garded the  wicked  wretch  she  had  been  told 
he  was. 

Watching  these,  at  a  little  distance,  stood 
two  simple  looking  fellows — the  one  with 
a  long  sheepish  face,  surrounded  v/itli  strag- 
gling lanky  locks,  which  v\^as  Hodge  ;  and 
tlie  other,  with  a  head  as  round  as  an  apple, 
of  which  the  countenance  was  marked  out 
of  all  contradiction,  for  it  would  have  rivalled 
any  old  buckler  in  the  number  of  dents  it 
had  ;  and  he  was  David.  Each  was  leaning 
on  a  formidable  looking  harquebus,  and  be- 
side which  they  were  armed  with  sword  and 
dagger. 

"  Dost  feel  any  more  comfort  now  ?"  in- 
quired the  good  dame,  as  her  ])atient  stood 
up  before  her,  immediately  the  dressing  of 
his  wound  was  iinished. 

"  Wonderful,  I  thank  you  very  heartily," 
exclaimed  tiie  youth,  leaning  of  himself 
against  a  chair — -for  he  felt  exceeding  weak. 

"  I'm  glad  on't,"  added  his  physician, 
carefully  pouring  into  a  cup  some  of  her 
famous  julep ;  then  giving  the  bottle  to  the 
black-eyed  Kate,  with  an  injunction  to  be 
mindful  and  put  it  down  safely,  she  offered  the 
cup  and  its  contents  to  her  patient.  "  Drink 
this,  I  prithee,"  said  she,  '"  and  be  assured 
"twill  do  thee  as  nuich  efficacy  taken  as  an 
inward  medicine,  as  tliou  hast  already  found 
when  used  as  a  lotion  for  a  wound."  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare  again  thanked  her  with  a 
like  sincerity,  and  cheerfully  swallowed  the 
draught  to  the  last  drop.  His  behavior  had 
already  pleased  her,  and  the  alacrity  with 
which  he  drank  what  she  had  given  him, 
delighted  her  still  more.  She  rose  from  her 
seat,  ordering  the  handmaid  to  clear  the 


table,  and  get  a  bowl  of  milk  and  a  manchet 
for  the  youth's  supper;  and  then  telling  the 
two  men  Sir  Thomas  desired  they  left  not  the 
room  on  any  account,  nor  once  took  their 
eyes  ofi'  of  their  prisoner,  she  seemed  as  if 
about  to  take  her  departure.  Yet  still  she 
lingered. 

"  I  marvel  thou  dost  not  confess  thy  wick- 
edness," said  she,  at  last,  to  her  young  patient, 
manifestly  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 
"  Prithee  say  what  thou  hast  done  with  the 
body  ;  for  methinks  the  least  thou  canst  do 
is  to  let  her  have  Christian  burial." 

"  Whose  body,  dear  lady  ?"  inquired  he. 

'•  Why,  poor  Mabel,  whom  thou  hast 
so  foully  murdered,  answered  the  dame. 
"  Alack !  'tis  a  grievous  thing  one  so  young 
— and  so  well  behaved  too — should  do  so 
horrible  a  thing."  Kate  stood  still  a  mo- 
ment, and  regarded  the  suspected  murderer 
with  a  wonderful  searching  glance. 

"  I  beseech  you,  think  of  me  not  so  vilely !" 
exclaimed  the  youthful  Shakspeare,  with 
great  earnestness.  "  By  all  things  most 
sacred,  I  do  assure  you,  I  got  this  blow  in 
endeavoring  to  stay  the  villains  who  carried 
her  off"."  Kate  returned  to  her  work  with  a 
look  of  infmite  satisfaction. 

'•  Didst  noL  hear  what  Sir  Thomas  said  ?" 
inquired  the  old  lady,  very  gravely ;  "  and 
dost  really  imagine  that  one  of  thy  years 
can  know  better  of  a  thing  than  a  justice 
o'  the  peace,  and  a  knight  o'  the  shire,  who 
owneth  lands  in  live  counties  ?"  There- 
upon the  good  dame  shook  her  head  with  a 
wonderl'ul  solemnity,  a;id  walked,  in  her 
stateliest  manner,  out  of  the  chamber. 

"  Prithee,  Kate,  bring  us  a  jug  of  small 
ale!"  exclaimed  the  man  with  the  indented 
lace,  as  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair, 
directly  his  mistress  had  closed  the  door. 
"  I'm  horrible  thirsty  after  all  this  fruitless 
searching  for  poor  Mabel." 

"  Body  o'  me,  so  am  I,  David  !"  said  he 
with  the  sheepish  countenance,  following 
the  other's  example.  "  I  feel  as  though  I 
had  lived  on  pickled  herrings  for  a  whole 
month  of  fast  days,  I  be  so  uncommon  dry. 
Come  Kate,  bring  us  a  tankard." 

"  Wait  till  thy  betters  be  served,  Hodge," 
replied  the  girl,  quickly.  David  looked  hard 
at  Hodge,  and  Hodge  looked  hard  at  David ; 
and  then  both  looked  very  hard  at  their 
prisoner. 

"  I  pray  you,  good  sir,  to  seat  yourself," 
said  Kate  to  the  latter,  who  still  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  back  of  a  chair,  looking 
faint  and  pale  ;  and  thereupon  she  moved 
the  chair  round  for  him,  convenient  for  his 
sitting.  "  Methinks  you  must  want  rest 
exceedingly." 


96 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  I  thank  you,"  replied  he,  taking  her  prof- 
fered kindness  very  courteously ;  I  am  in- 
deed somewhat  weary." 

"  O'  my  life  I  am  monstrous  sorry,"  ob- 
served she,  regarding  him  with  an  evident 
sympathy  ;  "  l)ut  I  will  make  what  speed  I 
can  with  your  supper,  so  tliat  you  shall  to 
bed  quickly  and  get  you  a  good  sleep,  for 
which  I  doubt  not  you  shall  be  much  the 
better." 

"  I  have  no  stomach  for  anything,  I  thank 
you  all  the  same,"  said  the  patient  faintly. 

"  Nay,  but  you  go  not  to  bed  supperless, 
I  promise  you,"  exclaimed  Kate,  with  one 
of  her  pleasantest  smiles ;  '•  such  light 
victual  must  needs  be  what  would  do  you 
most  good ;  and  I  will  take  care  it  shall 
be  greatly  to  your  liking."  As  soon  as 
she  had  left  the  room,  Hodge  again  looked 
at  David  and  David  looked  at  Hodge,  and 
both  looked  at  their  prisoner  harder  than 
before.  After  which  the  former  laid  his 
piece  carefully  on  his  lap,  and  the  other 
did  the  same  immediately ;  then  he  of  the 
well-marked  countenance,  stooped  forward, 
poking  out  his  chin  and  his  lips  towards 
his  companion,  making  a  sort  of  half- 
stifled  whistling,  and  the  owner  of  tlie 
sheep-face  lost  no  time  in  following  his  ex- 
ample. 

"  I  beseech  you  tell  me,"  said  William 
Shakspeare,  "  if  there  exists  any  evidence 
other  than  what  I  have  stated  lor  suppos- 
ing the  gentle  Mabel  hath  come  to  any 
hurt  ?"  At  hearing  of  this  question  the 
two  men  looked  at  each  otlaer  a  little 
harder,  and  whistled  a  little  louder  than 
they  had  previously  done. 

"  I  would  gladly  hear  any  intelligence  of 
her  safety,"  added  he,  upon  finding  he  got 
no  answer;  but  these  words  merely  ))ro- 
duced  an  accompaniment  to  the  whistling 
in  the  ehape  of  the  drumming  of  three 
fingers  of  each  of  his  guard  upon  the  table 
before  them.  Observing  they  did  not  choose 
to  speak,  he  desisted  of  liis  questions  till  the 
entrance  of  the  pretty  handmaid  with  his 
supper,  of  whom  he  inquired  in  a  like  man- 
ner, telling  her  also  he  could  get  no  answer 
of  any  kind  from  the  persons  she  had  left 
with  him. 

"  Wliy  so  churlish,  I  prithee  !"  exclaimed 
Kate  as  she  placed  close  to  the  wounded 
youth  a  bowl  of  hot  milk  spiced  with  nutmeg 
and  cinnamon,  and  a  fair  white  loaf,  knil'e 
and  s(X)on,  on  a  tray  covered  with  a  clotli 
that  seemed  to  rival  the  milk  in  whiteness. 
"  Methinks  'twill  do  you  no  great  harm  to 
open  your  mouths  a  bit,  the  which  you  are 
ready  enough  to  do  over  a  full  trencher." 

"  The  justice  hath  commanded  that  we 


have  no  communications  with  the  prisoner,"' 
observed  David  with  extreme  seriousness. 

"  And  moreover  hath  desired  that  we 
speak  to  him  at  our  peril,"  added  Hodge. 

"  A  fig's  end  for  the  justice  !"  cried  their 
pretty  companion,  to  the  infinite  astonish- 
ment of  the  serving  men  ;  "  art  so  weak  of 
conceit  as  to  suspect  this  good  youth  of  so 
improbable  a  thing  as  the  killing  of  our 
Mabel  ?  Wliy  thou  hast  no  more  brains 
than  a  blighted  apple."  Then  turning  to 
the  supposed  murderer  with  an  increased 
kindness  of  manner,  assured  him  that  no- 
thing was  known  concerning  of  the  missing 
person  but  what  he  had  himself  told,  and 
pressed  him  urgently  to  partake  of  what  she 
brought,  so  that  he  could  not  refuse :  and 
when  she  had  again  taken  herself  out  of  the 
room  David  and  Hodge  looked  at  each  other 
and  then  at  their  prisoner  so  terrible  hard, 
their  eyes  must  have  ached  for  some  minutes 
after.  William  Shakspeare  took  no  notice 
of  them,  although  they  were  watching  of  him 
narrowly.  All  at  once  the  two  men  snatched 
up  their  har(|uebusses  as  :f  they  would  have 
them  in  readiness  for  immediate  use,  and 
put  all  the  valor  they  possessed  into  their 
looks.  They  had  obseiTcd  he  had  taken  a 
knife  into  his  hand,  as  they  thought  with  no 
other  purpose  than  to  stab  them  and  then 
make  his  escape  ;  but  lie  merely  used  it  for 
the  cutting  of  a  slice  oft'  the  loaf  to  sop  in 
his  milk.  This  did  not  assure  tliem.  I'hey 
kept  their  gaze  on  his  every  motion  with 
extreme  seriousness,  save  when  he  happen- 
ed by  chance  to  raise  his  eyes  from  the  sup- 
per he  was  languidly  tasting,  when  on  a 
sudden  they  would  be  diligently  examining 
one  or  the  other  of  their  legs  they  were 
swinging  to  and  fio  on  the  chair,  with  as 
complete  a  carelessness  as  if  they  were 
thinking  of  notliing. 

Presently  Kate  returned  again,  bearing  a 
brimming  tankard,  which  she  put  down  be- 
tween the  two  serving  men. 

"  I  doubt  hugely  tiiou  dost  deserve  any- 
thing of  the  sort,"  said  she  to  tliem  ;  •'  thou 
showest  such  uncivil  behavior  towards  tliia 
good  youth.  I  would  wager  my  hfe  on"t 
he  knoweth  no  more  of  the  murder  than  a 
child  unborn." 

"  J5ut  his  worship  declarcth  he  Jolh  know 
of  it,  Kate,"  observed  David  witli  more  tiian 
ordinary  solennmess. 

"  And  moreover  hath  determined  'twas 
done  by  this  person  and  no  other,"  added 
Hodge  after  the  like  fashion. 

"  i  care  not  for  tifty  worsiiips,"  replied  she 
flashing  her  dark  eyes  very  prettily ;  "  or 
for  what  they  say,  or  for  what  they  do,  when 
tliey  show  eucli  marvellous  injustice.     Is't 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


97 


reasonable — is"t  natural — is't  credible,  one 
of  his  years,  with  a  coimtenance  too  as  in- 
nocent as  is  a  lambkin — should  take  to  such 
villainous  courses  ?  Why,  what  shallow- 
witted  poor  creatures  must  they  be  who 
would  entertain  such  intolerable  notions." 

The  rough-featured  scrv"ing-man,  as  she 
turned  her  back  to  approach  the  prisoner, 
shook  his  head  witii  a  very  wonderful  so- 
lemnity ;  and  then,  not  knowing  what  better 
to  be  at,  put  his  mouth  to  the  tankard,  and 
whilst  he  drank,  kept  his  watchful  eyes 
squinting  over  the  rim  in  the  direction  of 
the  supposed  murderer.  After  a  time  had 
elapsed,  which  his  companion  thouglit  was 
considerable  longer  than  it  ought  to  have 
been,  he  handed  his  sheep-faced  companion 
the  tankard,  wiping  of  his  mouth  v,ith  the 
cuff  of  his  jerkin  at  the  same  moment,  and 
looking  such  volumes  of  hidden  meaning  as 
it  is  utterly  impossible  to  express,  to  which 
the  other  responded  by  giving  a  hiisty  glance 
at  the  roof  and  then  a  prodigious  long  one 
into  the  tankard,  to  which  his  jaws  appeared 
to  be  fixed  with  such  firmness  there  was  no 
getting  of  them  apart, 

"  Now  a  fair  good  night  to  you ;"  ex- 
claimed the  smiling  little  creature  finding, 
with  all  her  kind  persuading,  she  could  not 
get  him  to  eat  more  of  his  supper.  '■  You 
can  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  3'ou  have  a  mind ; 
and  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  an  excellent  sweet 
rest.  Good  night,"  repeated  she,  and  gave 
with  it  so  soft  a  glance  as  if  she  intended  to 
have  subdued  all  the  manhood  in  his  na^ 
ture. 

"  Good  night !"  replied  William  Shak- 
speare  earnestly;  and  a  million  of  thanks 
for  your  great  kindness." 

Directly  Kate  had  departed,  David  threw 
himself  back  in  the  chair  in  the  fullest  con- 
viction, from  what  he  had  observed,  that  she 
entertained  a  design  for  the  prisoners  es- 
cape ;  and  doubtless  the  same  conclusions 
were  come  at  by  Hodge,  for  he  put  on  his 
countenance  much  the  same  sort  of  expres- 
sion, and,  seeing  the  supposed  murderer 
rising  from  his  seat,  both  his  guards  grasped 
their  arms  firmly  on  the  instant,  and  started 
to  their  feet,  manifestly  suspecting  he  was 
about  to  rush  upon  them.  This  movement 
of  his,  however,  was  merely  made  for  the 
purpose  of  throwing  himself  on  the  bed, 
which  he  soon  did  with  the  clothes  on,  for 
with  a  delicacy  suitable  to  his  years,  he 
liked  not  undressing  of  himself  before 
strangers.  In  truth,  he  was  thoroughly  ex- 
hausted by  pain,  anxiety,  and  weariness, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  was  in  as  deep  a  sleep 
as  ever  he  had  enjoyed  in  his  whole  life. 
The  two  serving  men  had  returned  to  their 


I  seats.  Both  gazed  upon  the  young  student, 
and  then  at  each  other,  as  if  they  had  huge 
doubts  he  had  any  intention  of  sleeping.  In 
a  short  time  all  was  as  silent  you  miglit  have 
heard  a  pin  drop,  which  silence  seemed  ex- 
ceeding irksome  to  the  guard.  Each  looked 
to  see  his  weapons  were  in  good  order — each 
snuffed  the  candle — and  each  buried  his 
nose  in  the  tankard ;  but  the  prisoner  re- 
mained motionless,  and  the  silence  grew  all 
the  greater.  It  was  evident  from  a  number 
of  fidgetty  ways  they  were  continually  exhi- 
biting, that  they  could  not  longer  remain 
without  some  talking. 

"  Methinks  Sampson's  niece  groweth  hor- 
ribly bold,  Hodge ;"  observed  David  at  last 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  Ay,  that  does  she,"  answered  Hodge  in 
a  whisper.  "  I  never  heard  of  such  extreme 
impudency  in  any  wench." 

"Heart  o'  me  P  said  the  other;  "I  did 
myself  hear  her  cry  out, '  a  fig  for  the  jus- 
tice !'  which  seemeth  to  me  to  smack  abom- 
inably of  a  wilful  rebelling  against  these  in 
authority." 

"Ay,  David,"  added  his  companion  ;  "and 
as  I  remember,  she  had  the  infamousness  to 
assert  she  cared  not  for  fifty  worships." 

"  My  hair  stood  on  an  end  at  hearing  it," 
said  David.  "  But  I  doubt  not  'twill  bring 
down  on  her  some  awful  judgment." 

"  It  cannot  help  doing  so,"  replied  Hodge. 
"Nevertheless,  we  must  not  say  auglit 
against  her  of  what  we  have  heard,"  ob- 
served he  of  the  marks.  "  For  she  has  some 
lusty  fellows  of  her  acquaintance,  wlio,  per- 
chance, might  not  talie  it  civil  of  us." 

"  Ah, that  she  hath!"  quoth  the  sheepish 
looking  one  with  a  famous  seriousness. 
"  One  of  whom  broke  my  head  at  the  last 
May  games,  because  I  laughed  when  she 
slipped  down,  and  showed  somewhat  more 
of  her  ancle  than  is  custouiarj'." 

"  At  least,  we  will  take  good  heed  she 
shall  not  assist  the  prisoner  to  escape  ;"  ob- 
served David. 

"  I  warrant  you,"  said  Hodge.  Again 
there  was  so  dead  a  silence  it  seemed  to 
make  their  flesh  creep  ;  and  they  looked  on 
the  sleeping  yout.'i  in  such  a  manner  as 
proved  they  would  liave  liked  any  other 
company.  They  turned  over  in  their  minds 
the  possibility  of  his  suddenly  rising  and 
making  some  desperate  effort  at  their  des- 
truction, with  the  expectation  of  saving  his 
own  hfe  by  it ;  and  the  more  they  thought  of 
it,  the  more  convinced  they  were  it  would 
be  done  ere  they  could  be  aware.  This  state 
of  apprehension  at  last  became  insupportable, 
and  both  made  a  movement  at  the  same 
moment  to  turn  their  attention  to  another 


98 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


matter.  David  raised  the  tankard  to  his 
mouth  to  drown  his  fears  in  a  full  draught; 
and  Hodge  snatched  up  tlic  snuffers,  despe- 
rately intent  on  lessening  the  wick  of  the 
candle,  which  he  had  been  screwing  up  his 
courage  to  do  for  the  last  half  hour.  Alack, 
the  trepidation  he  was  in,  caused  him  to  snuff 
it  out ;  and  then  they  were  in  total  darkness. 
To  be  in  ccjinpany  with  an  unfettered  mur- 
derer was  bad  enough  of  all  conscience,  but 
to  be  left  in  the  dark  with  him  was  more  than 
mortal  courage  would  allow  of.  David 
trembled  so  he  could  not  hold  the  tankard,  so 
down  it  went,  and  the  noise  it  made  so  fright- 
ened him  and  his  associate,  that  they  drop- 
ped their  harquebusses,  and  making  for  the 
door,  rushed  down  stairs  at  the  top  of  their 
speed,  crying  out,  "  murder  !"  as  loud  as 
they  could  bawl. 

About  live  minutes  afterwards  a  most 
formidable  armament  composed  of  every 
male  in  the  house  armed  to  the  teeth,  some 
half  dressed,  and  here  and  there  a  nightcap 
to  show  they  had  been  disturbed  from  their 
sleep,  crept  cautiously  up  the  stairs.  They 
gained  the  landing — ^the  justice  having  plac- 
ed himself  in  the  centre  of  his  liousehold,  in 
a  night-gown  and  slipjwrs,  a  velvet  cap  on 
his  head,  a  drawn  sword  in  one  hand, 
and  a  pistol  in  the  other.  Before  him  were 
Sampson  the  gamekeeper  and  two  of  his 
sons — all  stout  fellows,  in  foresters  frocks, 
carrying  loaded  pieces — then  came  Anthony, 
David  and  Hodge,  with  drawn  rapiers — the 
knight  ne.xt,  and  after  him  the  grooms  and 
scullions  with  lights  in  one  hand  and  some 
goodly  weapon  in  the  other.  Besides  which, 
from  open  doors  were  seen  divers  of  the 
women  in  their  night  dress,  taking  a  peep 
at  what  was  going  on,  with  a  scarce  reprcs- 
sible  inclination  for  a  good  scream.  When 
the  men  got  near  the  door,  upon  David  and 
Hodge  reminding  them  that  the  murderer 
had  with  him  two  loaded  harquebusses,  no  one 
seemed  inclined  to  go  in  before  his  fellows. 

"  How  know  you  not  he  maybe  this  very 
moment  teliind  the  door,"  said  David  in  a 
terrible  frightened  way,  that  carried  coiwic- 
tion  to  most  of  his  hearers.  "  Nay,  I  do 
believe  I  hear  him  now  levelling  of  his 
piece  !"  This  occasioned  a  sudden  backing 
of  the  armed  party,  and  a  famous  scream 
from  the  women.  The  knight  said  nothing 
— for  an  indisputable  reason — he  had  no- 
thing to  say — but  he  felt  that  he  had  known 
the  murderer  had  been  so  terrible  a  fellow, 
he  would  have  been  hanged  ere  he  would 
have  meddled  with  him.  The  dispute  among 
the  leaders  still  raged  high.  Every  one 
seemed  desirous  of  giving  his  neighbor  the 
honor  of  going  lirst ;  but  not  one  of  all  that 


body  but  modestly  declined  having  to  do  with 
any  such  greatness.  At  last  the  argument 
wa.s  put  a  stop  to  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Kate  with  a  lighted  candle  in  her  hand. 

"  What  dost  want,  Kate  ?" 

"  What  dost  want.  Uncle  ?"  was  said  at 
the  same  moment  by  the  stout  Sampson  and 
his  pretty  niece. 

"The  murderer  is  seeking  to  escape  us  ;" 
replied  Anthony. 

"  Prithee  get  thee  hence,  or  thou  wilt  be 
shot,"  exclaimed  one  of  her  cousins. 

"  I  marvel  there  should  be  such  foolish- 
ness!" observed  Kate;  and  the  next  mo- 
ment, to  the  iiitinite  horror  and  astonishment 
of  the  whole  party,  walked  deliberately  into 
the  formidable  chamter. 

"  I  prithee  come  here,  uncle  Sampson,  if 
thou  hast  not  lost  thy  wits  as  completely  as 
the  rest,"  added  sne  from  the  interior. 
"  Thou  shalt  see  a  sight  as  little  akin  to 
violence  as  can  be  seen  anywhere."  Samp- 
son creeped  cautiously — his  sons  followed 
their  father  with  the  like  heed — the  serving 
men  trod  in  the  steps  of  the  gamekeepers, 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  the  rest  of  his  de- 
pendants, half  curiousness  and  fear,  pushed 
forward  in  the  like  direction,  and  the  women 
with  what  they  had  ha.stily  put  on,  came  to 
take  a  peep  where  they  could.  To  the  great 
marvelling  of  all,  there  lay  the  supposed 
murderer  as  fast  asleep  as  ever  he  could  be  ; 
and  there  lay  the  broken  tankard  ;  and  there 
lay  the  fallen  harquebusses.  Now  who  was 
so  valorous  as  the  justice ;  he  seemed  as 
though  he  would  have  cut  his  cowardly 
serving-men  into  ribbons  for  having  woke 
up  the  whole  household  with  so  fabulous  a 
tale  as  they  had  told  of  the  sudden  and  out- 
rageous attack  upon  them  of  their  prisoner  ; 
liowever,  he  contented  himself  with  onlering 
them  to  stay  wMiere  they  were  and  keep 
better  watch ;  and  then  he,  with  the  rest, 
presently  retraced  their  steps  to  their  several 
beds. 

In  the  morning  William  Shakespeare 
woke  up,  marvellously  refreshed  by  his 
night's  rest,  and  the  tirst  objects  that  met 
his  sight  were  his  guards  sound  asleep, 
snoring  loud  enough  to  wake  anybody. 
Inconceivable  was  the  coiLsternation  of 
David  and  Hodge,  upin  0{)eiiing  their  eyes, 
to  find  so  dreadful  a  person  close  upon  them, 
but  taking  of  them  no  more  heed  than  if  they 
had  been  a  couple  of  drowned  pujipies  left  in 
a  dry  jwnd.  Each  cautiously  st)ughf  to  gain 
possession  of  his  fire-arms,  wliich  stood  at  a 
little  distance  from  them  u|)on  neigliboring 
chairs,  and  to  their  great  joy  this  they  suc- 
ceeded in  doing.  <)ur  young  student,  in  his 
turn,  was  in  a   considerable  astonishment. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


99 


when,  upon  turning  round,  with  his  face 
dripping  with  water,  to  get  to  the  towel,  he 
encountered  the  fixed  fearful  gaze  of  his 
guards,  whom  a  moment  since  he  had  beheld 
in  so  perfect  a  state  of  somnolency.  He 
could  not  avoid  standing  looking  at  them  for 
a  few  moments,  there  was  so  strange  an 
expression  in  their  countenances ;  and  they 
gazed  as  though  he  had  such  power  in  his 
eyes  they  could  not  turn  their  own  aside. 
However,  directly  he  went  to  the  towel,  and 
was  rubbing  himself  with  it,  the  two  stared 
at  each  other  more  intently  than  they  had 
ever  done. 

He  had  just  got  himself  in  his  cleanest 
trim,  and  feeling  wonderfully  comfortable, 
when  his  pretty  little  friend  the  gamekeep- 
er's niece,  made  her  appearance  with  his 
breakfast,  in  a  kinder  mood  than  ever ;  and 
he  was  sufficiently  improved  to  do  justice  to 
her  catering,  even  had  it  not  been  garnished 
with  such  winning  entreaties  and  smiling 
looks  as  accompanied  it.  He  had  scarce 
made  a  finish  of  his  meal  when  Dame  Lucy 
entered,  bottle  in  hand,  and  finding  him  so 
much  better,  she  again  washed  his  wound 
with  her  infallible  julep,  and  then  made  him 
swallow  a  cup  of  the  same,  with  a  very  visi- 
ble satisfaction,  especially  when  he  grate- 
fully ascribed  his  better  health  to  her  won- 
derful medicine.  The  old  dame  could  not 
forbear  sighing  at  the  thought  of  losing  so 
goodly  a  patient,  and  in  her  own  mind  i 
thought  it  monstrous  pitiful  one  so  tractable 
in  the  taking  of  medicine,  should  be  turned 
over  to  so  disreputable  a  physician  as  the 
hangman. 

About  an  hour  after  this,  closely  escorted 
by  his  guards,  the  prisoner  entered  the 
justice's  room.  Sir  Thomas  sat  in  a  high- 
backed  cushioned  chair,  with  a  screen  at  his 
back  to  keep  off  the  wind,  and  a  table  be- 
fore him  to  hold  such  papers,  books,  and 
utensils  of  writing  as  he  needed.  Jemmy 
Catchpole  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table  mend- 
ing of  a  pen,  for  he  was  sure  to  be  sent  for 
on  all  knotty  cases,  to  advise  with  the  jus- 
tice, and  see  that  the  law  was  properly 
administered.  There  were  several  persons 
— farmers  and  yeomen  they  looked  to  be — 
setting  on  a  long  settle  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  chamber,  perchance  on  some  business 
with  his  worship,  gnawing  their  sticks,  fidd- 
hng  their  hats,  and  staring  about  them,  as 
men  do  who  are  kept  waiting  in  a  strange 
place,  when  they  would  rather  be  elsewhere. 
Sampson,  the  stout  gamekeeper,  and  his  two 
stout  sons,  with  Anthony,  a  bull-headed, 
pig's-eyed  serving-man,  having  remarkable 
thin  legs,  very  much  after  the  fashion  of  a 
pair  of  nut-crackers,  and  two  or  three  stupid 


blubberly  fellows  of  clowns,  carrying  staves 
in  token  of  their  being  constables,  stood  in 
a  half  circle  at  a  yard  or  so  from  the  table. 
Justice  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  looking 
awfully  solemn  at  Jemmy  Catchpole,  the 
lawyer  leaned  forward  on  his  stool,  gazing 
with  equal  solemnity  at  his  worship  ;  and 
the  constables,  gamekeepers,  and  serving- 
men,  stared  from  the  ground  to  the  ceiling, 
and  from  the  ceiling  to  tiie  ground,  with  a 
solemnness  more  awful  than  either.  This 
was  the  moment  of  the  prisoner's  appearance. 

'•  Call  William  Shakespeare  !"  exclaimed 
Sir  Thomas,  as  soon  as  he  noticed  that  there 
was  no  occasion  to  do  anything  of  the  sort. 

"  Call  William  Shakespeare,"  repeated 
the  lawyer  to  one  of  the  constables. 

"  Will'm  Shuk — spur  I"  hoarsely  bawled 
out  a  short,  thick,  bandy-legged  man,  with 
a  face  that  would  have  out-blushed  a  poppy. 

The  youth  was  just  before  him,  and  an- 
swered readily  to  his  name. 

'■  William  Shakespeare  I"  said  the  justice, 
in  his  gravest  voice ;  '•  you  are  brought 
before  me,  her  Majesty's  justice  o'  the 
peace,  on  a  charge — that  is  to  say,  you  are 
here  before  me  accused  of — ^j'es,  accused  of 
and  charged  with — charged  with  divers 
horrible  offences — that  is  to  say,  criminally 
charged  with,  or  I  might  say,  accused  of,  all 
manner  of  misdemeanors,  and  with  perpe- 
trating and  committing  divers  horrible  of- 
fences against  the  peace  of  our  sovereign 
lady  Queen  Elizabeth ;  whereof  the  first 
against  you  is  no  less  a  crime  than  to  be 
accused  of,  or  otherwise  charged  with,  the 
horrible  offence  of  stealing — against  the 
peace  of  our  sovereign  lady  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, as  aforesaid." 

Having  made  so  imposing  a  display  of 
his  judicial  oratory,  his  worship  cried  out — 
"  Call  Anthony  Gosling  !"  Jemmy  Catchpole 
repeated  the  command  to  the  hoarse  man 
with  the  bandy  legs. 

^  Ant'ny  Gos — lin  !"  bawled  the  consta- 
ble. 

"Here!"  replied  a  voice  from  the  bull- 
headed  serving  man,  and  the  thin  legs  made 
two  steps  out  of  the  half  circle  towards  the 
table. 

"  Swear  him  !"  exclaimed  the  justice,  and 
the  lawyer,  laying  hold  of  a  little  book, 
mumbled  a  few  sentences  in  a  quick  low 
tone,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  Anthony 
made  a  bob  with  his  head  towards  the  book, 
and  then  held  up  his  head  again  very  stiff, 
and  looked  very  desperate.  Just  as  tiiis 
was  done,  an  interruption  appeared  in  the 
person  of  the  pretty  gamekeeper's  niece 
who  presented  a  letter  to  the  justice,  the 
sight  of  which  set  him  making  of  another 


100 


TILE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


famous  speech,  accusing  the  prisoner  of 
stealing  sundry  books  belonging  to  Sir 
Alarmaduko  de  Largesse  ;  and  then  putting 
forth  tiie  letter  as  one  just  received  from  Sir 
Marmadukc  in  answer  to  a  communication 
sent  that  morning  by  Jiimself,  concerning  of 
the  charges  against  William  Shakspeare, 
he  bade  Jemmy  Catchjole  read  it,  as  it 
doubtless  contained  decisive  evidence  of  the 
prisoner's  guilt.  Jemmy  Catchpole  read  it 
very  carefully,  and  the  farther  he  read  the 
more  astonished  was  the  justice,  for  it  not 
only  contained  a  clear  acknowledgment 
that  the  book  had  boon  lent  by  the  writer  to 
the  prisoner,  but  spoke  in  the  highest  terms 
of  eulogy  of  this  identical  William  Shak- 
speare as  a  youth  of  admirable  character, 
whom  he  had  long  known  and  respected, 
and  begging  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  as  a  partic- 
ular favor,  to  treat  that  person  honorably,  to 
let  him  retain  the  book  which  he  had  false- 
ly been  accused  of  stealing,  and  allow  him 
to  return  to  his  house  immediately,  on  a 
horse  he  had  sent  by  one  of  his  serving-men. 
Sir  Thomas  would  not  believe  his  ears, 
and  could  scarce  believe  his  eyes,  even 
when  he  had  himself  closely  examined  the 
hand-writing  and  the  seal ;  but  he  could  not 
so  easily  be  brought  to  part  with  his  prison- 
er. There  was  the  charge  of  murder  yet 
to  be  entered  into  ;  and  he  was  proceeding 
in  his  usual  rambling  manner  to  state  the 
accusation,  when  one  of  the  yeomen  on  the 
settle  started  up  on  a  sudden,  and  stated  he 
had  seen,  when  returning  from  work  the 
night  before,  the  said  Mabel  carried  in  the 
arms  of  a  strange  gallant,  accompanied  by  a 
companion,  ami  both  were  riding  at  so  great 
a  pace,  they  were  quickly  lost  sight  of.  No 
sooner  did  his  worship  hear  this  statement, 
than  sharply  ordering  Jemmy  Catchpole  to 
return  the  book  to  the  prisoner  and  dismiss 
him,  he  stalked  indignantly  out  of  the  cham- 
ber, and  could  not  be  brought  to  do  any 
more  justice  business  all  that  day. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Ah,  my  swete  svvetyng  ! 
My  lytyl  i)rety  svveiyng, 

My  swetyng  wyl  1  love  wherever  I  go  ; 
She  is  so  proper  and  pure, 
Full  stedlast,  stabill  and  demure, 
There  is  none  such  ye  may  be  sure, 

As  my  swete  swetyng. 

Old  So.ng. 

Mabel  awoke  in  a  feverish  uneasy  state 
the  morning  after  her  abduction,  ancl  fomul 


herself  in  a  strange  bed,  having  to  it  hang- 
ings of  the  costliest  description.  By  de- 
grees, the  adventures  of  the  preceding  night 
came  upon  her  memory.  She  could  dis- 
tinctly remember  the  treacherous  gallant 
of  her  former  acquaintance,  and  the  forbid- 
ding features  of  his  servile  companion  ;  and 
then  she  had  some  faint  remembrance  of  a 
courteous  lady,  who  had  a.ssured  her  of  her 
safety,  and  after  a  wondrous  show  of  kind- 
ness and  protection,  had  made  her  take  such 
refreshment  as  she  needed,  and  then  con- 
ducted her,  as  she  said,  to  her  own  chamber, 
that  she  might  sleep  with  a  full  sense  of  se- 
curity. Sometime  passed  whilst  the  poor 
foundling  endeavored  to  collect  her  scattered 
thoughts,  to  find  out  the  reason  she  had  been 
forcibly  taken  from  her  home. 

After  wandering  from  one  topic  to  another 
with  no  other  result  than  to  get  more  be- 
wildered than  she  was  at  first,  she  resolved 
to  dress  herself  forthwith,  believing  it  to  be 
far  beyond  her  usual  hour  for  so  doing  ;  but 
when  she  sought  her  clothes,  not  a  vestige 
was  to  be  seen  in  any  part  of  the  chamber. 
This  seemed  stranger  than  all.  She  re- 
membered the  kind  lady  helping  her  to  un- 
dress with  manifold  assurances  of  her  per- 
fect safety  ;  and  she  recollected  also  placing 
of  her  things  upon  a  chair  that  stood  withni 
a  few  paces  of  the  bed ;  but  there  was  the 
chair  with  its  tapestry  cushion  uncovered 
by  so  much  as  a  single  thread.  As  she  was 
marvelling  at  so  unaccountable  a  disappear- 
ance, the  door  of  her  chamber  opened,  and 
there  entered  a  lady  of  considerable  attrac- 
tioiis,  both  in  form  and  figure,  yet  a  close 
observer  might  have  detected,  despite  the 
artful  bloom  on  her  cheek,  that  she  had  pas- 
sed her  youth.  Her  head  was  dressed  in 
the  latest  Venetian  tire  ;  an  open  collar  of 
the  newest  fashion  disclosed  the  whiteness 
of  her  neck,  and  a  dress  of  orange  tawney 
silk,  fairly  trimmed  with  the  whitest  lace,  set 
off  the  proportions  of  her  figure  to  the  com- 
pletest  advantage.  She  was  followed  by  a 
female,  who  seemed  by  her  dress  to  be  a 
servant,  carrying  on  her  arm  what  appeared 
to  bo  sundry  articles  of  wearing  apparel. 

Doubtless  the  first  of  these  two  was  the  kind 
lady  of  whom  iMabel  had  Ihxmi  thinking,  for 
she  came  smiling  to  the  bedside,  kissi'd  the 
fair  foundling  with  an  amazing  ail'ectionate- 
ness,  asked  a  thousand  questions  in  a  breath 
how  she  had  fared,  how  she  had  slept,  whethtT 
she  would  rise,  and  what  she  would  choose 
to  break  her  fast  with  ;  and  then  scarce  al- 
lowing the  other  opportunity  to  give  a  single 
answer,  she  informed  her  she  had  brought 
her  servant  to  tire  her  in  such  apparelling 
as  she  had  considered   fittest  for  her  wear, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHx-VKSPEARE. 


101 


as  the  things  her  young  friend  wore  were 
of  far  too  mean  a  sort  for  a  person  she  loved 
so  dearly.  Mabel  was  not  suffered  to  make 
any  objection.  The  rich  beauty  of  her  new 
attire  was  temptingly  displayed  before  her 
admiring  eyes,  and  jewels  of  the  fairest  wa- 
ter lay  dazzlingly  beside  it.  She  thought 
them  a  rare  sight  indeed  ;  but  'twas  all  in 
vain  she  declared  them  to  be  much  too 
line  for  her  weaving,  the  kind  lady  would 
hear  nothing  of  the  sort,  stopped  her  mouth 
with  all  sorts  of  endearing  expressions,  and 
fairly  pulled  her  from  the  bed,  entreating 
she  would  allow  her  sweet  lovely  person  to 
be  attired  without  a  word  more. 

As  she  was  being  dressed,  she  could  not 
help  observing  the  exquisite  w'ork  in  the  ar- 
ras that  surrounded  the  chamber,  upon 
which  was  depicted,  in  the  most  glowing 
colors  the  loves  of  Venus  and  x'Vdonis.  No- 
thing could  be  so  beautiful  she  thought, 
save  the  carved  corners  of  the  bedstead,  each 
of  which  represented  a  naked  Cupid,  tig- 
ured  to  the  life,  grasping  the  stem  of  a  palm 
tree  with  one  arm,  holding  back  the  silken 
curtains  with  the  other,  and  looking  under 
them  with  an  expression  that  seemed  to  say 
there  was  in  the  bed  something  beyond  con- 
ception admirable.  At  each  corner  of  the 
chamber  were  fair  statues  of  marble,  the 
very  loveliest  and  lovingest  objects  that  had 
ever  been  produced  by  the  sculptor's  art, 
and  there  was  scarce  any  one  thing  about 
her  that  did  not  bear  on  it  such  forms  of 
beauty  as  are  most  enticing  to  the  young 
and  imaginative  mind.  Certes,  for  all  such 
cunning  was  displayed  in  chese  ligures, 
whereon  whatever  art  could  do  in  fashioning 
what  was  most  graceful  had  been  essayed, 
a  piece  of  nature's  more  perfect  handiwork 
there  present  outstripped  them  all. 

"  O'  my  life,  sweetest  creature  !  how  ex- 
ceeding beautiful  thou  art !"  exclaimed  the 
lady,  gazing  on  Mabel,  as  if  in  absolute 
wonder. 

'•  Dost  think  so,  indeed  !"  replied  the  half- 
dressed  beauty,  blushing  somewhat,  to  the 
great  heightening  of  her  most  moving 
graces. 

"Think  so?  O,  thou  dear  rogue !"  said 
the  lady  in  an  arch  way  ;  "  wouldst  have 
me  believe  thou  knowest  nothing  of  the  mat- 
ter !  Hast  never  looked  on  those  unrivalled 
features  ?  Hast  never  beheld  those  exquis- 
ite limbs?  Fie!  fie!  Thou  canst  help 
knowing  it  better  than  any,  and  thinking  of 
it  loo." 

"  Believe  me,  I  have  thought  of  it  but  lit- 
tle," answered  the  pretty  foundling. 

"  Nay  I  will  believe  nothing  of  the  sort," 
responded  tlie  other  :    "  there   was  never  a 


woman  yet  that  knew  not  her  own  attrac- 
tiveness, and  it  is  said  some  do  occasionally 
see  and  think  more  of  it  than  other  folks ; 
but  that  there  should  exist  in  this  world  a 
creature  of  the  most  ravishing  loveliness 
ever  beheld,  who  knoweth,  and  thinketli  but 
little  of  her  own  rare  perfections,  is  cleaa 
out  of  all  credibility." 

"  I  assure  you,  it  is  as  I  have  said,"  ob- 
served Mabel. 

"Heaven  forgive  thee!"  exclaimed  the 
lady,  shaking  her  head,  and  laughing  very 
prettily  ;  "  never  met  I  so  undeniable  a  .stoiy 
teller,  and  yet  coming  from  so  fair  a  source, 
no  truth  could  appear  half  so  winningly. 
Prithee,  take  my  word  then,  since  thou  hast 
such  lack  of  proper  acquaintance  with  the 
subject ;  and  be  assured,  one  mere  semely 
featured,  and  gracefully  limbed  withal,  is 
not  to  be  met  with,  search  the  whole  king- 
dom through."  Then  turning  to  the  tire- 
woman, whose  large  eyes  and  full  round 
face,  expressed  somewhat  of  wantonness, 
slie  added,  "  What  dost  think  of  it,  Abigail  ?" 

"  x\n'  it  please  you,  my  Lady  Comtit,  me- 
thinks  there  needs  no  questioning,"  replied 
the  tirewoman,  then  on  the  floor  fitting  on  an 
embroidered  shoe,  seemingly  of  the  smallest 
size,  as  Mabel  sat  on  a  chair  with  the  lady 
leaning  over  her.  "  Touching  the  face,  if 
ever  any  man  gazed  on  features  so  moving, 
beauty  hath  gone  out  of  my  knowledge  ;  and 
as  for  the  person — who  hath  ever  looked  on 
so  neat  a  foot,  so  delicate  an  ankle — or  so 
exquisite  a  leg  as  there  are  here  ?"  Mabel 
blushing  deeper  than  ever,  because  of  there 
being  at  that  moment  a  greater  display  of  her 
symmetry  of  limb  than  she  thought  becom- 
ing, drew  away  her  foot  hastily,  and  rose 
from  her  seat. 

''■  Oh,  the  pretty  rogue,  how  rosily  she 
blushes  !"  exclaimed  Lady  Comfit,  laugh- 
ingly drawing  the  abashed  maiden  towards 
a  large  mirror.  "  Now,  if  thou  wilt  not  be- 
lieve other  evidence,  deny  thyself  if  thou 
canst."  And  thereupon  her  companion 
pointed  to  the  reflection.  Mabel  saw  before 
her  a  form  and  figure  such  as  hath  been  de- 
scribed, arrayed  with  all  the  choiceness 
which  skill  in  dress  could  give  to  them,  for 
she  wore  a  velvet  suit  of  a  plum  color,  worn 
low,  and  delicately  powdered  with  gold  and 
pearl,  her  fair  neck  embraced  with  a  neck- 
lace of  blushing  rubies,  and  jewels  of  greater 
rarity  in  her  hair,  ears,  and  stomacher.  Tlte 
poor  foundling  could  hardly  believe  she  was 
the  admirable  creature  she  saw  in  all  that 
bravery,  and  Lady  Comfit  and  Abigail  look- 
ed at  each  other,  as  if  they  mightily  enjoyed 
her  astonishment 

"  Methinks   I  have    never  appeared   so 


102 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


comely  in  all  my  life  before,"  observed  the 
simple  girl. 

"  Thou  art  right  I  doubt  not,"  replied  the 
lady,  with  a  smile ;  "  but  thou  shalt  no 
longer  hide  so  bright  a  light.  Come  along, 
I  prithee,  my  sweet  creature.  Such  rare 
attractions  should  be  rarely  appreciated,  or 
huge  wrong  would  be  done  thee.  Thou 
shalt  have  choice  worshipping.  This  way, 
dear  sweet  rogue,  and  I  will  tell  thee  more 
anon."  So  saying,  with  her  ann  round  the 
waist  of  the  gentle  ]Mabel,  Lady  Comfit  en- 
tered an  adjoining  chamber. 

If  the  humble  foundling  had  been  dazzled 
by  the  costly  furnishing  of  the  bed-chamber, 
how  much  more  reason  had  she  to  be  simi- 
larly influenced,  wlien  she  beheld  the  great 
splendor  of  the  chamber  she  had  just  enter- 
ed. The  arras  was  more  gorgeous,  and  on 
it  was  depicted,  in  the  very  richest  color- 
ing, the  loves  of  Jupiter,  and  others  of  the 
heathen  deities.  In  one  place  was  Danae, 
yielding  her  enamored  nature  to  the  golden 
shower — a  type  of  that  species  of  afFection- 
ateness  still  met  with  in  woman,  that  can 
be  easily  procured  by  the  like  means. 
There,  Leda  caressing  of  the  stately  swan, 
whose  graceful  movements  and  fair  apparel- 
ling, had  so  won  upon  her  admiration — sym- 
bolical of  that  sort  of  loving  amongst  the 
sex,  which  hiith  no  better  origin  than  mere 
outward  appearances ;  and  elsewhere,  Eu- 
ropa,  borne  over  the  yielding  waves  by  the 
bull,  whose  lustiness  of  limb  had  provoked 
her  to  such  hardihood  as  lost  her  to  her 
company — a  right  true  picture  of  that  sort 
of  feeling  in  women  occasionally  met  with, 
miscalled  love,  which  doth  so  conspicuously 
savor  of  tlie  mere  animal.  Besides  these, 
were  subjects  out  of  all  number  of  a  like 
description,  so  movingly  delineated,  that  it 
was  scarce  possible  for  any  that  gazed  on 
them,  not  to  find  their  dispositions  softened 
into  a  similar  tendency. 

But  every  object  in  both  chambers  seemed 
studiously  i'ashioned  so  as  to  breatiie  of  love 
— not  that  love  which  is  tlie  pure  oflspring 
of  the  affections,  and  can  only  live  in  the 
rare  atmosphere  of  intellectual  beauty  ;  but 
that  more  gorgeous  blossom  often  mistaken 
for  the  modest  flower  of  the  same  name, — 
that  springs  from  rank  rich  soils,  and  thrives 
Ijcst  in  the  stifling  air  of  luxurious  indid- 
gence.  Both  apparently  are  warmed  by  the 
same  sun,  so  are  the  rose  and  the  poppy — 
and  (jtt  appear  of  the  same  glowing  com- 
plexion, as  shall  be  found  in  the  flower  and 
the  weed  just  named  ;  but  tlie  one  hath  in 
it  60  sweet  an  essence,  that  ever  so  small  a 
particle  delightetli  the  senses  by  its  excpii- 
siteness,  and  can  do  harm  to  none — whilst 


the  other  secretes  deadly  intoxicating  juices, 
which  give  an  unnatural  stimulus  to  those 
who  take  it  for  their  enjoyment,  fevers  the 
blood,  poisons  the  nature,  and  kills  the  soul. 

Lady  Comfit  allowed  the  simple  girl  to 
admire  as  much  as  she  would,  without  in- 
terruption, the  costly  and  subduing  beauty 
of  the  several  ornaments  of  the  chamber, 
and  then  led  her  to  a  table  prodigally  gar- 
nished with  all  manner  of  spicy  viands  and 
stimulating  wines.  Meats  nnd  pasties,  di- 
vided the  space  with  glass  bottles  tilled  with 
the  products  of  the  choicest  vineyards,  rich 
!  silver  cups  and  platters,  china  dishes,  and 
embroidered  napery.  Mabel  who  had  all 
her  life  cat  her  simple  meal  of  cold  meat 
and  bread,  off  a  wooden  trencher,  accompa- 
nied with  a  draught  of  small  ale  from  a 
horn  cup,  looked  in  some  amazement  at 
such  store  of  tempting  delicacies  displayed 
in  vessels  of  such  extreme  value  as  here 
presented  themselves  for  her  accommoda- 
tion. Lady  Comfit  pressed  her  to  name  her 
choice,  and  she  seemed  so  sore  puzzled  that 
the  lady  kindly  recommended  such  dishes 
as  she  herself  most  approved  of,  portions  of 
which  the  poor  foundling  thankfully  ac- 
cepted, and  found  of  a  marvellous  delectable 
flavor. 

"  And  now  what  wine  dost  prefer,  sweet- 
est ?"  inquired  the  lady  lovingly. 

"  An'  it  please  you  I  would  rather  a  cup 
of  small  ale,"  replied  Mabel,  at  which  the 
lady  and  her  tirev\-oman  laughed  very  plea- 
santly. 

"  Small  ale,  dear  heart !"  exclaimed  Lady 
Comfit.  "  Such  drink  is  never  for  ladies — 
'tis  fit  only  for  serving  men,  and  such  low 
persons." 

"  Then  perchance,  a  draught  of  spring 
water  might  be  Imd  readily?"  asked  her 
companion,  at  which  the  other  two  laughed 
more  pleasantly  tlian  before. 

"  Water  !"  cried  the  lady  at  last.  "  Ffaitli 
I  should  be  much  to  blame  were  I  to  let  thee 
swallow  such  unwh(desome  stuff.  Here  is 
wine  for  thee,  and  plenty — the  choicest 
withal  that  ever  came  of  the  grape." 

"  But  I  am  monstrous  thirsty,"  observed 
Mabel,  "  and  wine  is  of  too  great  a  strengtli 
for  one  so  unused  to  it  as  am  I,  to  quench 
their  thirst  with." 

"  Tush,  my  sweet  creature,"  replied  Lady 
Comfit ;  "  this  wine  is  not  so  strong  as  small 
ale,  be  assured  of  it.  Is  it,  Abagail  ?"  asked 
she  of  her  attendant. 

"  'Tis  made  expressly  for  ladies'  drink- 
ing, an'  it  please  you,  my  lady,"  answered 
Abigail,  very  readily.  "  A  child  might 
drink  a  bottle  of  it  with  as  much  innocence 
as  tliou'di  it  was  mere  water." 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


103 


"  Without  doubt,"  added  his  mistress,  ta- 
king one  of  the  bottles  and  pouring  part  of 
its  rich  contents  into  a  silver  goblet.  "  I 
will  myself  show  thee  how  harmless  a  beve- 
rage it  is."  So  saying  she  raised  the  brim- 
ming vessel  to  her  lips  and  swallowed  it  at 
a  draught.  Assured  by  this  that  there  could 
be  no  harm  in  it,  the  unsuspicious  Mabel  al- 
lowed herself  to  take  a  moderate  draught, 
seeing  which  her  companions  looked  at  each 
other  with  a  pecidiar  smile,  and  presently,  as 
she  found  the  spicy  nature  of  what  slie  had 
eat  so  plentifidly,  made  her  mouth  hot  and 
dry,  after  the  same  pressing  entreaties  and 
earnest  assurances,  she  repeated  it.  At  last 
linding  the  simple  girl  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  eat  or  drink  a  mouthful  more,  the  attend- 
ant cleared  away  the  things,  and  Mabel  was 
left  alone  with  the  lady. 

Directly  they  were  alone  the  latter  drew 
her  chair  close  to  that  of  her  companion, 
and  with  an  irresistible  air  of  sincerity  and 
friendliness,  took  one  of  the  poor  foundling's 
hands  in  her  own. 

"What  a  happy  v7oinan  thou  art!"  ex- 
claimed Lady  Comfit,  with  wonderful  em- 
phasis, and  observing  Mabel  looked  as 
though  she  could  not  comprehend  what 
should  make  her  so  very  happy,  added  with 
increasing  earnestness,  '•  What  a  proud  wo- 
man thou  art  !"  This  exclamation  appeared 
to  be  less  understood  than,  the  preceding. 
"  At  least  thou  shouldst  be,"  added  the  lady, 
in  a  marked  manner.  '•  I  doubt  not  there  are 
thousands  of  wome;i  would  give  all  they  are 
worth  in  the  world  tu  have  thy  good  fortune." 

"  Indeed  !"  cried  Mabel,  in  a  famous  as- 
tonishment. 

"  Ay,  that  would  they,  ray  sweet  crea- 
ture," cried  her  companion,  pressing  her 
hand  very  affectionately.  "  But  who  of 
them  all  hath  thy  desert?  Art  thou  not 
formed  to  be  loved  as  no  woman  was  ever 
loved  before  ?"  At  hearing  this  the  poor 
foundling  appeared  to  marvel  too  greatly  to 
say  anything. 

"  O'  my  word,  thou  art  like  to  become  the 
envy  of  all  women,"  continued  Lady  Com- 
fit. "Methinks  'twould  be  a  most  pitiful 
shame  to  allow  of  such  perfections  as  thou 
hast,  to  be  shut  up  in  an  obscure  place 
where  they  can  be  seen  of  none  who  would 
hold  them  in  proper  appreciation,  whilst  the 
powerfulest  noble  in  the  land  is  sighing  of 
his  heart  away  with  a  sweet  hoping  so  fair 
a  creature  might  be  esteemed  of  him,  cher- 
ished by  him,  and  caressed  by  him  in  such 
fashion  as  she  is  most  worthy  of.  But  I 
will  wager  my  life  on't  thou  hast  too  noble 
a  spirit  to  be  of  such  poor  commodity  ;  and 
art  of  too  kindly  a  disposedness  to  let  a 


princely  gentleman,  anxious  to  gratify  thy 
every  wish,  linger  out  his  days  in  hopeless 
miser}'',  for  lack  of  tliat  happiness  thou  alone 
art  capable  of  bestowing." 

"  I  ?"  exclaimed  Mabel,  incredulously. 
"  Believe  me,  I  know  of  no  such  person  ; 
have  seen  no  such  person.  Surely  there  is 
some  huge  mistake  in  this." 

"  Never  did  truer  thing  occur,"  replied  the 
lady.  "  It  matters  not  that  thou  shouldst 
never  have  beheld  him — be  assured  he  hath 
seen  thee,  and,  as  it  could  not  help  being,  at 
the  first  sight  of  so  much  ravishing  beauty, 
his  noble  heart  was  taken  close  prisoner, 
and  he  hath  ever  since  been  in  a  passionate 
phrenzy  of  impatience  for  the  gaining  of  thy 
dear  love." 

"  Methinks  'tis  a  strange  way  of  showing 
such,  to  tear  me  from  my  friends,"  observed 
the  poor  foundling. 

"  'Tis  the  way  of  these  great  ones,  sweet- 
est," answered  her  companion.  "  But  'tis 
done  out  of  no  disrespect,  be  assured  ;  for 
he  hath  ordered  thou  shalt  be  treated  with  as 
much  honor  as  though  thou  wert  a  crowned 
queen." 

"  'Tis  exceeding  strange  !"  said  Mabel, 
marvelling  the  more,  the  more  she  heard. 

"  Thou  wilt  see  him  anon,"  added  the 
other.  '•  And  doubt  not  he  will  love  thee 
with  so  deep  a  fondness,  he  will  leave  thee 
no  cause  for  one  moment's  disquietude. 
Thou  wilt  be  made  happy  straight — and 
such  happiness  shalt  thou  enjoy  as  thou 
hast  never  had  experience  of.  All  that  di- 
vinest  love  and  boundless  magnificence  can 
eflifect,  shall  crown  thy  wishes — never  end- 
ing pleasures  shall  entice  thy  inclinations 
the  whole  day  long — the  splendid  pageant- 
ries of  state  -  the  homage  bestowed  on  ab- 
solute power — the  observances  and  ceremo- 
nials of  highest  rank  shall  be  for  thy  par- 
ticular honor  on  all  occasions  ;  and  wherever 
thou  art  inclined  to  turn  thy  steps,  thou  shalt 
meet  with  some  new  delight  of  infinite  ex- 
quisiteuess  provided  for  no  other  end  than  to 
assist  in  making  perpetual  thy  inconceivable 
felicity." 

"  Indeed  I  know  not  what  to  say  on  such 
a  matter,"  observed  her  young  companion, 
somewhat  bewildered  at  so  magnificent  a 
perspective.  "  I  am  so  very  humble  a  per- 
son, I  cannot  think  myself  tit  to  be  raised  to 
so  proud  a  station  ;  and  in  all  sincerity  I 
say  it,  I  would  rather  back  to  my  friends,  to 
give  place  to  soiue  one  more  worthy." 

"  I  will  never  allow  of  thy  doing  so  fool- 
ish a  thing,"  exclaimed  Lady  Comfit,  in 
some  seeming  astonishment.  "  Thou  must 
needs  be  the  worst  possible  judge  of  the 
matter  that  exists ;   and  I  am  thy  friend, 


104 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


sweetest,  and  therefore  the  very  properest 
to  advise  thee  in  sucli  a  case."  And  there- 
upon the  lady  squeezed  the  fonndhng's  hand, 
and  gazed  on  her  more  affectionately  tlian 
ever. 

"  I  should  foci  extremely  Ixjunded  to  you, 
would  you  counsel  me  what  to  do,"  said  the 
simple  girl.  "  In  very  truth,  my  humble- 
ness scemethto  me  utterly  inconsistent  with 
such  grandeur  as  you  have  spoken  of. 

"  iSiay,  'tis  thy  modesty  maketh  thee  think 
so,"  replied  the  otlier.  "  None  can  be  so  fit 
as  thou  art.  Didst  not  note  how  famously 
thou  didst  become  these  costly  vestments  ? 
Just  so  admirably  wilt  thou  become  the  love 
of  that  princely  gentleman  who  commanded 
them  for  thy  wearing.  Trouble  thyself 
nothing  concerning  of  thine  own  thoughts. 
Thou  art  too  young,  sweetheart,  to  see  these 
tilings  in  the  properest  light.  Let  it  suffice, 
that  the  proud  noble  who  loveth  thee  with 
such  infiniteness,  in  his  heart  alloweth  of 
none  being  so  exalted  ;  and  to  convince  thee 
how  great  is  his  respect,  hath  required  me, 
Lady  Arabella  Conitit,  an  earl's  daughter, 
to  be  tliy  companion  and  friend,  and  show 
thee  such  prodigal  kindness  as  I  would  show 
to  no  other  living." 

1'he  poor  foundling  could  scarce  e.xprcss 
her  estimation  of  being  treated  witli  such 
handsomeness  as  to  have  an  earl's  daugh- 
ter for  her  companion,  and  the  latter  having 
at  last  managed  to  allay  her  doubts  and  ex- 
cite her  curiousness,  bade  her  amuse  iiorself 
as  she  chose  for  a  short  time ;  and  then  ca- 
ressing her  with  extreme  alicctionateness, 
left  the  chamber.  Mabel  felt  in  a  strange 
state  of  excitement.  Not  a  thought  of  ex- 
treme unsuspiciousness  which  exists  only 
in  perfect  innocency  and  genuine  truthful- 
ness— a  nature  which,  like  a  clear  mirror 
in  the  fair  sunshine,  is  made  to  throw  o'er 
what  it  looks  on,  the  light  shining  upon 
itself. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Lady  Arabella  pro- 
ceeded to  a  distant  chamber,  with  an  expres- 
sion on  her  countenance  very  milike  what 
she  had  put  on  before  the  gentle  Mabel,  and 
as  soon  as  she  had  opened  the  door,  she 
gave  way  to  a  most  unequivocal  satirical 
sort  of  laugh.  There  was  no  one  present 
but  a  gallant  of  a  middle  age,  dressed  in  the 
foppery  of  the  times,  who  had  the  look  of 
confirmed  dissoluteness  which  a  long  course 
of  prodigal  living  usually  be.stovvs,  and  he 
was  idling  the  time  away  by  picking  of  his 
teeth,  with  the  remnants  of  his  recent  meal 
before  him.  The  room  was  notliing  like  so 
choicely  furnislied  as  those  the  lady  had  left, 
yet  it  had  sufiirient  comfort  in  it  to  content 
any  ordinary  person. 


"  Ha  !  how  flyeth  the  game,  Moll  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  gallant,  on  noticing  the  en- 
trance of  his  visitor.  "  Doth  she  take  the 
lure  bravely  ?  Cometh  she  fairly  into  the 
decoy  ?  But  I  see  by  thy  laughing  she  hath 
been  so  prettily  mewed,  that  she  careth  not 
to  Tuffio  her  feathers  against  the  golden 
wires  of  her  cage." 

"O,  my  life,  thou  hast  hit  it,"  replied  the 
lady,  as  she  threw  herself  into  a  chair. 
"  The  pretty  fool  is  in  such  conceit  of  her 
splendid  prison,  she  seemeth  well  content  to 
stay  in  it  all  her  days." 

"  She  hath  more  wit  than  I  have  seen  in 
her,  if  she  can  get  it  to  last  beyond  a  month 
or  so,"  observed  her  companion  ;  "  then  she 
may  fly  where  she  lists.  But  hast  taken 
care  to  fill  her  sufficiently  with  my  lord  ?" 
inquired  he. 

"  To  the  very  throat,"  answered  the  other. 
"  Indeed,  I  have  so  crammed  her  with  him, 
that  it  must  needs  take  some  hours  ere  she 
can  require  another  meal." 

"  Nay,  keep  up  her  stomach,  I  prithee, 
Moll,"  cried  the  gallant,  laughingly.  "  When 
my  lord  comes  she  may  carve  for  herself. 
I  shall  start  off  on  the  instant,  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  joyful  intelligence,  and  ride 
like  a  post  all  the  way;  and  I  hope  he  will 
bountifully  remember  my  monstrous  pains 
to  provide  him  with  so  dainty  a  leman  ;  i'or 
in  sober  truth,  my  long  ill  luck  at  the 
cards,  a  murrain  on  them  !  hath  left  me  as 
near  bare  of  coin  as  a  pig's  tail  is  of  feath- 
ers." So  saying,  with  a  laugh  half  stifled 
with  a  yawn,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  stretch- 
ing his  arms  oTit  to  the  near  bursting  of  his 
doublet. 

"  As  I  live,  I  do  look  for  some  famous  re- 
ward myself,  or  I  would  not  be  so  intent 
uj)on  the  matter !"  obser\-ed  the  lady  ;  "  and 
yet  I  marvel  he  should  get  so  desperately 
enamored  of  a  raw  chit,  that  hath  scarce 
sense  enough  to  know  that  she  walks  upon 
two  legs." 

"  Methinks  he  had  better  have  taken  to 
thee,  Moll,  eh  ?"  inquired  he,  somewhat  in  a 
sarcastic  manner.  "  Mass  !  there  is  exceed- 
ing little  of  the  raw  chit  about  thee,  I'll  war- 
rant ;  and  as  for  knt)wing,  I  would  wager  a 
dozen  marks  thou  couldst  spare  a  gcxxiiy 
share  of  thy  knowledge,  and  yet  be  all  the 
better  for't." 

"  For  which  I  have  to  thank  thee,  thou 
thrice  accursed  villain  !"  fiercely  exclaimed 
his  companion,  starting  into  a  sudden  rage 
at  the  taunt.  "  1  was  well  enough  ere  I 
listened  to  thy  beguiling." 

"  Doubtless,"  coolly  replied  tlie  other  ; 
"  well  enough  for  one  that  is  no  bettor.  And 
as  for  beguiling,  tiiou  took  it  so  readily,  it 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


105 


was  clear  'twas  an  exceeding  familiar  ac- 
quaintance with  thee." 

"Thon  lyest,thou  paltry  cozening  knave  !" 
cried  the  lady,  looking  monstrous  black  at 
him.  "  There  could  not  be  one  more  virtu- 
ous in  this  world  ere  I  had  such  ill  hap  as 
to  meet  with  thee." 

"  Marry,  but  I  have  huge  doubts  of  that, 
Moll,"  said  the  gallant,  quietly  putting  on 
his  hat ;  "  virtuousness  such  as  thine  must 
needs  have  been  wonderfully  cheap  to  the 
haver,  for,  as  I  well  remember,  I  did  but 
give  thee  a  few  pretty  trinkets,  a  few  pretty 
words,  and  a  few  pretty  caresses,  and  thy 
virtue  went  to  pieces,  like  a  rotten  apple  un- 
der a  cart-vvliecl." 

"  Why  thou  infamous  pitiful  wretch,  how 
dost  dare  say  such  things  of  me  !"  exclaim- 
ed the  Lady  Arabella,  looking  as  terribly  in- 
dignant, and  as  horribly  enraged,  as  a  bad 
woman  could,  who  is  taunted  with  her  infa- 
my. "  'I'hou  hast  had  the  villainy  to  plot 
my  undoing — thou  hast  sought  me,  flattered, 
fondled,  and  betrayed  me  to  ruin— day  after 
day  thou  hast  sworn  thy  honorableness  and 
thy  undying  affection  into  my  deluded  ears, 
and  I  believing — poor  fond  fool ! — thy  pro- 
digal oaths  and  protestations,  left  a  worthy 
gentleman  who  loved  me  as  his  life — left 
home,  friends,  all  things  that  were  most 
worthy  of  my  caring  tor,  to  cling  to  such 
baseness  as  I  have  here  before  me  !" 

"  Well  said,  Moll,  o'  my  life  well  said!" 
he  observed,  as  if  applauding  her  to  the 
echo.  "  I  read  the  same  notable  speech, 
word  for  word,  in  a  book  of  jests  I  had 
t'other  day  of  one  of  my  lord's  play;-rs.  I 
should  not  have  credited  thy  memory  was  so 


"  Get  thee  gone,  thou  pestilent  jackal,  to 
the  lion  thy  master,"  'cried  his  companion, 
with  no  little  bitterness  ;  "  thy  riotous  ill-liv- 
ing hath  brought  thee  to  such  a  pass,  that 
thou  art  a  disgrace  to  thy  family,  and  a 
shame  to  thy  friends,  and  can  only  continue 
thy  discreditable  existence  by  coney-catch- 
ing for  some  more  prodigal  villain  than 
thyself."  At  hearing  this  the  other  took  to 
whistling,  yet  he  did  it  with  so  ill  a  grace, 
'twas  evident  he  was  in  no  humor  for  mu- 
sic. "  Out  on  thee,  thou  cozening  rascal !" 
continued  she,  with  increasing  emphasis  ; 
"  away,  thou  contemptibie  cheat  !  What 
new  trick  hast  learned  to  take  gulls  by  ? 
Art  not  in  a  brave  humor  for  stealing  ? 
Wouldst  cut  a  purse — wouldst  cog — wouldst 
foist — wouldst  forswear  thyself  a  thousand 
times  ?  Go  get  thee  a  rope  for  thine  own 
hanging,  and  thou  wilt  save  the  constables 
the  trouble  of  carrying  thee  to  the  gallows  !" 

"  Hold  thy  cursed  prate,  thou  foul-mouth- 


ed ronyon  !"  said  the  gallant,  in  that  deep 
sort  of  voice  which  usually  heralds  a  mon- 
strous passion. 

"  Thou  art  a  scurvy  knave  that  would 
willingly  do  such  dirty  work  as  other  men 
would  scorn,"  replied  the  lady  with  infinite 
disgust. 

"  Away,  thou  callet  !"  exclaimed  the 
other  contemptuously.  '•  Thou  wouldst 
needs  pass  for  a  lady,  forsooth,  and  hast  a 
monstrous  hankering  after  gentility.  Fine 
o'  my  life  !  Moll  Crupper  a  lady  !  Alack, 
for  good  manners  !  The  saddler"s  daughter 
transformed  into  Lady  Arabella  Comfit. 
Here's  goodly  coney-catching  !  A  line 
morning  to  you,  an'  it  please  you,  my  lady  ! 
I  commend  myself  very  heartily  to  your 
ladyship's  excellent  consideration.  Believe 
me  I  am  infinitely  bound  to  you  for  your 
ladyship's  exquisite  sweet  condescension, 
and  very  humbly  take  my  leave  of  your 
ladyship's  most  absolute  and  very  admirable 
noble  nature." 

So  saying  her  companion,  with  a  profu- 
sion of  mock  respect,  was  making  his  way 
towards  the  door,  when  Moll  Crupper,  who 
liked  so  little  to  be  minded  of  her  bad  dis- 
posedness,  evidently  liked  less  to  be  told  of 
lier  low  origin,  for  she  darted  from  her 
chair  with  a  violent  execration,  and  sprung 
upon  her  accuser  with  the  fury  of  a  tigress, 
pulling  him  by  the  hair  with  one  hand, 
whilst  she  curried  his  face  famously  with 
the  other.  But  this  was  borne  with  any- 
thing save  patience  by  the  gallant.  No  lack 
of  coarse  abuse  mingled  with  the  common- 
est oaths  accompanied  her  endeavors  to  do 
him  hurt,  till  after  twisting  her  wrists  till 
she  desisted  of  her  attack,  and  cried  out  with 
the  pain,  he  pushed  her  away  from  him  with 
such  force,  that  she  fell  on  the  floor  as  if 
every  sign  of  life  had  fled.  This  put  the 
gaUant  in  some  sort  of  fear,  for  he  had  many 
reasons  for  at  that  moment  no  great  harm 
should  happen  to  her,  so  he  ran  and  lifted 
her  up  with  an  extraordinary  show  of  affec- 
tion. But  the  pretended  lady  was  far  from 
being  dead.  She  knew  what  was  going 
forward,  and  was  disposed  to  take  advan- 
tage of  it,  for  she  was  well  aware  she  could 
not  exist  without  the  assistance  of  her  com- 
panion. She  remained  motionless  as  a 
stone,  till  her  associate  in  villainy  had  ex- 
hausted every  epithet  of  affection  upon  her 
and  every  species  of  execration  upon  him- 
self. And  then  she  gradually  opened  her 
eyes,  gradually  employed  her  limbs,  and  gra- 
dually found  the  use  of  her  tongue,  as  she 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  during  a  long 
series  of  similar  conflicts. 

"  What  a  wretch  have  I  been  to  use  theo 


108 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


80  uncivilly,  my  sweet  life,"  said  he,  with 
all  a  lover's  fondness,  as  she  rose  from  tiie 
floor,  half  reclining  in  his  arms,  drawing 
her  hands  over  her  face  with  a  look  that  be- 
spoke a  perfect  unconsciousness  of  what 
had  been  going  forward.  "  1  know  not 
what  devilish  spirit  possesseth  me.  "  'Slight, 
I  could  go  and  boat  out  my  brains  against  a 
post,  I  feel  such  hatred  of  myself;  for  never 
truer  woman  lived  than  thou  art,  my  dear 
Moll,  and  so  exquisite  a  creature  to  love,  1 
shall  never  meet  anywhere." 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  have  been  to  blame,  sweet 
heart,"  replied  the  fictitious  Lady  Arabella 
very  kindly.  "  1  had  no  need  to  have  an- 
gered thee,  for  thoti  hast  ever  been  a  mon- 
strous deal  more  good  to  me  than  I  have  de- 
served." 

"  Say  not  so,  my  wanton,"  exclaimed  her 
companion  with  increased  alFectionateness. 
"  Thy  deserts  are  beyond  all  reckoning,  and 
I  hold  thee  in  such  absolute  love  as  cannot 
cease  unless  my  life  be  e.xtinguished." 

"  Dear  heart,  how  I  love  thee  for  saying 
that,"  cried  she,  in  a  perfect  ecstacy. 
"  Thou  art  a  noble,  bountiful,  brave  gentle- 
man as  ever  breathed,  and  I  care  not  a  rush 
for  the  finest  fellow  that  wears  a  head,  for 
he  can  be  nought  in  comparison  with  thy 
inestimable  sweet  goodness." 

What  followed  may  be  readily  imagined. 
Each  of  these  two  worthies,  who  a  moment 
since  joined  so  soundly  in  mutual  abuse,  and 
were  desperate  to  do  some  mischief,  now 
held  up  each  other's  qualities,  as  beyond  all 
parallel,  and  would  have  gone  through  all 
manner  of  dangers  to  have  saved  the  other 
from  hurt.  But  these  sort  of  scenes  had 
been  common  with  them  for  a  long  time 
past.  They  caressed,  abused,  and  drubbed 
one  another  with  infinite  heartiness — and 
the  next  moment  caressed,  abused,  and 
drubbed,  and  with  more  heartiness  than 
ever.  But  it  so  happened  on  this  occasion, 
having  gone  through  the  regular  series,  they 
left  off  at  the  first  stage  of  the  next,  in  con- 
.sequence  of  the  gallant  being  forced  to  take 
his  departure  without  furtlier  delay. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

And  then  the  lover. 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  tcoful  ballad 
Made  to  his  7nistress'8  eyebrow. 

SlIACSFEARE. 

He  coude  songes  make  and  wel  endite, 

Juste  and  eke  dance,  and  wel  pourtraie  and 

write. 
So  bote  he  loved  that  by  nightertale 
He  slep  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale. 
Cartels  he  was,  lowly,  and  servisable, 
And  carf  before  his  fader  at  the  table. 

Chaucbb. 
If  I  had  wytt  for  to  endyte 
Off  my  lady  both  fayre  and  free, 
Of  her  goodnesse  then  wolde  I  write — 
Shall  no  man  know  her  name  for  me. 

Old  Song. 

Sir  Marmaduke  de  Largesse,  his  wor- 
thy chaplain,  and  his  old  acquaintance  the 
Antiquary,  were  sitting  round  a  table  in  tlie 
library  seemingly  wonderfully  intent  upon 
something.  The  good  old  loiight  sat  back 
in  his  seat  with  one  hand  upon  the  handle  of 
his  rapier,  and  the  other  resting  upon  the 
arm  of  his  high-backed  chair,  his  benevolent 
cheerful  countenance  impressed  with  a  sort 
of  curious  pleasure,  and  his  white  beard  and 
hair  looking  more  silvery  than  ever  they 
had.  At  a  little  distance  from  him  sat  Sir 
Jolian,  getting  to  be  almost  as  lustily  limbed 
as  his  patron,  his  pliunp  sleek  features  prov- 
ing he  had  as  much  reason  to  be  as  prodi- 
gally grateful  to  Providence  as  he  had  been 
at  any  time;  and  also  exhibiting  in  his 
countenance  a  pleasant  mingling  of  curious- 
noss  and  satisfaction.  Both  of  tlie.<e  gazed 
upon  Master  Peregrine,  who,  with  as  much 
of  the  pantaloon  in  his  appearance  as  ever, 
sat  forward  leaning  of  hi*  elbows  on  a  large 
book  open  upon  the  table,  his  hands  holding 
a  paper,  and  his  eyes  ])eering  through  his 
spectacles  with  a  mar\'ellous  gratification, 
sometimes  at  his  companions,  and  anon  at 
what  he  held  in  his  hands. 

"  Never  read  1  anything  so  sweetly  fash- 
ioned !"  exclaimed  he.  "  I  remember  with 
what  singular  e.xquisite  satisfaction  I  first 
read  the  most  choice  ballads  of  Fair  Marga- 
ret and  Sweet  William,  Lord  Thomas  and 
Fair  Eleanor,  and  Little  Musgrave  and  Lady 
Barnard,  but  the  pleasure  was  ntuight  in 
comparison  with  what  I  felt  on  jjerusing 
this  most  rare  writing." 

"  Marry,  give  me  Cherry  Chace,  or  the 
Battle  of  (Jttcrborne !"  cried  Sir  Marma- 
duke.  "  I  never  hear  a  verse  of  either  but 
it  stirreth  me  like  a  very  trumpet." 

"  I  deny  nothing  of  tiioir  excellence,"  ob- 
served tlic  chaplain;  "  but  who  could  for  a 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


107 


moment  compare  them  with  the  inestimable 
subhmity  of  Pindar,  the  luscious  sweetness 
of  Anacreon,  or  the  moving  melodiousness 
of  Musffisus?  I  do  assure  you,  that  among 
the  Greeks — to  say  nought  of  the  Romans 
— there  is  such  brave  store  of  odes,  songs, 
and  elegies  of  the  very  choicest  sort,  as  doth 
exceed  all  possible  comprehension." 

"  Tut,  tuti"  replied  the  antiquary,  impa- 
tiently ;  "  wouldst  make  me  believe  there 
hath  ever  been  anything  writ,  or  tiiought  of, 
more  gallant  than  Havelok  the  Dane,  more 
pastoral  than  Harpalus,  or  more  touching 
than  Lady  Greensleeves  ?" 

"  Beyond  the  possibility  of  doubting,  wor- 
thy sir,"  answered  Sir  Johan  ; — "  there 
shall  easily  bo  found  in  Homer  things  more 
martial,  in  Theocritus  things  more  natural, 
and  in  Sappho  things  more  tender." 

'•  Passion  o'  my  heart !  what  hath  become 
of  thy  wits,  I  wonder !"  exclaimed  Master 
Peregrine,  in  a  manner  between  astonish- 
ment and  indignation  ;  "  I  marvel  that  thou 
shouldst  essay  to  prove  thyself  such  an  addle 
brain. 

"  Nay,  if  any  brains  be  addled.  Master 
Peregrine,  it  must  needs  be  your  own,"  re- 
plied the  chaplain  ;  for  'tis  out  of  all  sense 
and  reason  to  slight  the  infinite  choicer  beau- 
lies  of  classic  song  for  a  parcel  of  silly  old 
ditties." 

"  Silly  old  ditties !"  echoed  the  enraged 
antiquary,  looking  over  his  spectacles,  as 
tliough  he  had  a  mind  to  do  Sir  Jolran  some 
grievous  harm.  "  Is  '  Lustely,  lustely  let 
us  saile  fortlie  !'  a  silly  old  ditty  ?  Is  '  Kytt 
hathe  lost  hur  key,'  a  silly  old  ditty  ?  Is 
'  Jolly  good  Ale  !'  a  silly  old  ditty  ?  Is  Guy 
of  Colbronde,  or  Sir  Tristrem,  or  John  Dory, 
or  a  thousand  others  of  the  like  unmatchablo 
perfectness,  silly  old  ditties  ?  thou  shallow- 
witted,  ignorant,  poor  goose,  ihou  !" 

'•  I  cry  you  mercy,  my  masters,"  exclaim- 
ed Sir  Marmaduke,  good-humoredly,  as  he 
had  oft  done  on  many  similar  occasions. 
"  When  you  get  to  talk  of  these  matters, 
you  are  like  unto  two  lusty  bulls,  who  can- 
not enter  the  same  pasture  without  going 
to  loggerheads.  Surely,  in  advocating  the 
excellency  of  a  thing,  there  is  no  argument 
in  squabbling." 

"  Silly  old  ditties  !"  repeated  Master  Per- 
egrine, with  considerable  emphasis. 

"  For  mine  own  part,"  continued  the 
knight,  "  though  I  will  in  no  way  seek  to 
lessen  the  estimableness  of  the  ancient  wri- 
ters, either  Greek  or  Latin,  some  how  or  other 
these  same  old  ballads  afford  me  that  rare 
pleasure  I  have  never  found  in  songs  of  a 
more  classic  sort." 

"  Perchance,  I  am  somewhat  to  blame,  in . 


having  expressed  myself  so  slightingly  of 
such  things,"  observed  Sir  Johan,  whose  or- 
thodoxy never  led  him  to  oppose  his  patron's 
opinion ;  "  I  meant  no  offence,  believe  me. 
Indeed,  I  do  opine  some  of  these  excellent 
fine  ballads,  so  liked  of  my  esteemed  friend 
here,  are  of  a  wonderful  delicate  concep- 
tion ;  but  Providence,  who  is  ever  so  ex- 
ceeding bountiful,  hath  wisely  ordained  us 
different  tastes,  that  one  liking  one  thing,  and 
another  liking  something  different,  no  one 
thing  should  exist  without  being  held  in 
some  estimation." 

"  Silly  old  ditties !"  Master  Peregrine 
loould  have  said  again,  but  his  better  nature 
prevailed,  and  he  swallowed  the  muttered 
words  ;  yet,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  as  if  he 
thought  himself  on  a  par  with  one  of  his 
beloved  heroes  of  the  Round  table. 

"  And  now  for  that  sweet  song  you  have 
promised  us,"  exclaimed  Sir  Marmaduke; 
you  have  spoken  of  it  so  fairly  I  am  all  im- 
patient to  be  hearing  it." 

"  O'  my  word  and  so  am  I,"  replied  his 
chaplain,  eagerly  ;  "  and  as  Master  Peregrine 
hath  such  famous  judgment  in  these  matters, 
I  doubt  not  he  hath  a  rare  treat  in  store  for 
us."  At  this  compliment  to  his  judgment, 
all  trace  of  displeasure  vanished  from  the  fea- 
tures of  the  antiquary ;  and  he  said  some  civil 
speech,  in  modest  denial  of  having  more  judg- 
ment than  so  learned  a  person  as  Sir  Johan, 
took  off  his  spectacles,  wiped  them  carefully, 
replaced  them,  hemmed  some  twice  or  thrice, 
brought  the  paper  somewhat  closer  to  his 
nose,  and  with  an  appropriate  serious  man- 
ner read  what  is  here  set  dowTi : 

THE   POET'S   SONG    OF   HIS    SECRET 
LOVE. 

"  Upon  the  dainty  grass  I  lay  me  down 
When  tired  of  labor  on  mhie  eyelids  rest. 

And  then  such  glad  solace  I  make  my  own. 
As   none    can  know,  for   none   can   be   so 
blessed. 

For  then  my  sweeting  comes  so  gallantlie, 

I  cannot  but  conceive  she  loveth  me. 

I  prythee  tell  me  not  of  such  bright  fires 
As  burn  by  day  or  night  in  yon  fair  skies ; 

For  when  I  bring  her  to  my  chaste  desires 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  are  shining  in  her  eyes. 

For  then  my  sweetmg,  so  well-favoredlie, 

With  Heaven-like  gaze  declares  she  loveth  me  ! 

The  tender  blossoms  blush  upon  their  bowers. 
The  luscious  fruit  hangs  trembling  by  the 
leaf: 

But  her  rose-tinted  cheek  out-glows  all  flowers, 
Her  cherry  lips  of  fniits  I  prize  the  chief. 

For  then  my  sweeting  so  delightsomclie. 

Doth  take  her  oath  upon't,  she  loveth  me! 


108 


THE  YOUrfl  OF  SHAKSPEAkE. 


Alack,  what  pity  'tis,  such  moving  sight 

Should  cheat  my  heart  within  an  idle  dream ! 

'Tis  fantasy  that  brings  such  loving  light — 
The  fruit  I  never  taste — but  only  seem  : 

Oh,  would  my  sweeting  in  all  honestie. 

Vouchsafe  to  give  some  sign  she  lovetli  me  ! 

I  take  no  pleasure  now  in  pleasant  sports, 
I  find  no  profit  in  books  old  or  new ; 

I  hie  me  where  my  life's  fair  queen  resorts, 
For  she's  my  pastime  and  my  study  too : 

And  of  my  sweeting,  say  1  urgentlie — 

What  would  I  give  to  know  she  loveth  me  ! 

Yet  though  njy  heart  with  her  so  long  hath 
been, 
I  know  not  she  takes  heed  of  my  behoof, 
I  gaze  on  her,  yet  care  not  to  be  seen — 
I  long  to  speak,  and  yet  I  keep  aloof 
And   whilst  my  sweeting  fills  my  thoughts  — 

Perdie  ! 
How  oft  I  think — perchance  she  loveth  me. 

Wher'er  I  tarn  methinks  I  see  her  face, 
If  any  lovely  thing  can  there  be  found  ; 

The  air  I  breathe  is  haunted  with  her  grace, 
And  with  her  looks  the  flowers  peep  from  the 
ground. 

I  pray  my  sweeting,  very  earnestlie, 

She  may  incline  to  say  she  loveth  me. 

But  when  from  all  fair  things  I  travel  far. 
Enwrapped  within  the   shroud  of  darkest 
night ; 

She  rises  through  the  shadows  like  a  star, 
And  with  her  beauty  maketh  the  place  bright. 

And  of  my  sweeting  breathe  I  tenderlie. 

Fortune  be  kind,  and  prove  she  loveth  nie  1" 

"  Indeed,  'tis  a  sweet  ballad  and  a  simple !" 
exclaimed  Sir  Marniaduke,  who  had  listened 
witli  ii  famous  attentive ness. 

"  And  of  a  most  chaste  and  delicate  fancy," 
added  hi.s  chaplain,  wlio  seemed  not  a  whit 
less  j)leased.  "  O'  my  word,  it  is  long  since 
I  liave  heard  verses  writ  with  so  natural  a 
grace,  or  of  so  truly  dainty  a  conceit.  It 
reniindeth  me  of  those  exquisite  simple,  ten- 
der poems,  that  are  to  be  found  iiere  and 
there  scattered  amongst  productions  of  the 
minor  Greek  poets." 

"  Dost  nut  know  by  whom  it  is  written, 
Master  Peregrine,"  inquired  the  old  knight, 
seemingly  to  prevent  the  scornful  reply  the 
antiquary  was  about  making  to  Sir  Johan's 
allusion  to  the  superiority  of  the  classic 
writers. 

"  No,  nor  can  I  guess,"  answered  Master 
Peregrine  ;  "  I  have  never  seen  nor  heard  of 
it  before,  and  I  am  in  some  doubt  as  to  its 
exact  age,  yet  I  could  venture  to  make  a 
guess  from  certain  marks  it  liatli,  that  it 
cannot  be  later  than  the  time  of  Henry  the 
Eighth." 


"  'Tis  like  enough,"  observed  Sir  Marma- 
duke.  "  Perchance,  it  may  be  one  of  those 
same  ballads  our  young  scholar  hath  learned 
of  his  mother,  and  hath  copied  for  your  e.\- 
press  delectation,  left  it  in  the  book,  and  so 
forgot  it." 

"  Nay,  that  can  scarce  be,"  replied  the 
antiquary;  for  ho  hath  oft  times  told  me  he 
knew  of  no  more  than  such  as  lie  had  already 
given." 

J  ust  at  this  moment,  the  conversation  was 
stopped  by  a  knocking  at  the  door,  and  the 
entrance  of  the  very  person  they  were  speak- 
ing of,  who  received  a  hearty  welcome  from 
all,  but  particularly  from  the  good  old  knight. 
William  Sliakspeare  glanced  around  as  if  in 
search  of  some  one,  but  evidently  by  his 
looks,  he  saw  not  the  one  he  wanted. 

"  What,  hast  had  a  bout  at  cudgel  play  ?" 
exclaimed  Sir  Marmaduke,  merrily,  as  he 
noticed  the  bandage  that  still  remained  upon 
William  Shakspeare's  wounded  head.  There- 
upon, he  presently  told  how  he  had  got  it, 
which  seemed  to  set  them  marvelling  great- 
ly, and  the  old  knight  was  much  moved  at 
iiearing  that  the  fair  creature  he  had  helped 
to  save  from  villains  at  Kenilworth  was  now 
completely  in  their  power.  He  kept  asking 
of  questions  about  which  way  they  went, 
and  what  sort  of  persons  were  they,  inter- 
mingled with  expressions  of  grief  for  the 
fate  of  the  pretty  damsel,  and  of  hostility 
against  her  betrayers.  He  got,  however, 
but  indifferent  answers,  for  in  truth  tlie  youth 
knew  a  very  little  more  than  himself.  Mas- 
ter Peregrine,  wiiosc  appreciation  of  ballads 
was  much  higher  than  that  of  women,  man- 
ifested no  inconsiderable  impatience  at  this 
turn  in  the  conversation. 

'•  Will  Sliakspeare !"  cried  he,  at  last ; 
"  Prithee  come  here  ;  I  want  thee  awhile." 
The  young  student  left  Sir  Marmaduke,  and 
ajiproached  close  to  the  antiquary.  "  Thou 
wilt  do  me  a  service,  if  thou  wilt  t(>ll  me 
where  gottest  thou  this  ballad."  William 
Shakspeare  glanced  his  eye  at  the  pajier, 
and  on  the  instant,  a  very  perceptible  blush 
mantled  his  fair  features.  "  Where  didst 
have  it  from  ?" 

"  I  wrote  it,  an'  it  please  you,  worthy  sir," 
answered  the  young  student,  somewhat  fal- 
tcringly. 

"  Ay,  'tis  in  thy  hand,  I  see  ;  but  whence 
came  it?"  inquired  the  other, more  urgently. 

"  13y'r  lady,  I  do  suspect  tiio  young  rogue 
liath  made  it  of  his  own  invention,"  exclaim- 
ed the  old  knight. 

"  So  think  1,"  added  tlie  chaplain. 

"  Ey  ;  dost  mean  to  say  tiiese  delicate 
verses  are  out  of  thine  own  head  f"  cried 
the  antiquary,   in  exceeding  astonishment. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


109 


"Indeed,  they  are  truly  of  my  poor  indit- 
ing," replied  the  young  poet,  modestly. 
Scarce  were  the  words  well  out  of  his  mouth 
when  Master  Peregrine,  in  an  ecstacy  of 
admiration,  threw  his  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  hugged  him  as  though  he  were  a  prodi- 
gal son  returned  to  his  old  fatlier  after  a  long 
absence. 

"  Why  thou  delectable  sweet  rogue  !"  ex- 
claimed he,  "  where  didst  get  such  admira- 
ble choice  ideas  ?" 

'•  iMethinks  'tis  plain  enough  whence  they 
proceeded,"  observed  Sir  Johan,  with  mar- 
vellous satisfaction.  "  I  have  taken  huge 
pains  for  some  length  of  time  our  young 
friend  should  have  a  proper  acquaintance 
with  the  treasures  of  classic  song,  both  Greek 
and  'tis  an  easy  matter  to  see  how  much  my 
scholar  hath  prohted  by  my  instruction  :  for, 
as  I  said  when  I  first  heard  those  verses, 
they  do  remind  me  powerfully  of  some  spe- 
cimens of  the  miner  Greek  poets." 

"  Remind  tiiee  of  a  fig's  end  !"  exclaimed 
Master  Peregrine,  contemptuously.  Cannot 
any  one  see  with  half  an  eye — 'Save  those 
ignorant  poor  coxcombs  who  are  blind  as 
bats — that  this  is  a  true  ballad  of  the  choice 
old  school ;  and  it  is  not  well  known  what 
extreme  pains-taking  I  have  had  with  this 
my  scholar  from  the  first,  that  he  should  be 
well-grounded  in  ballad  lore  ;  and  lo  !  here 
is  my  reward — which  in  very  truth,  exceed- 
eth  my  most  sanguine  expectations." 

"  Nay,  I  will  be  bound  by  his  answer," 
said  the  chaplain,  not  at  all  disposed  to  give 
up  the  honor  of  having  produced  so  credi- 
table a  scholar.  "Prithee  declare,  my  ex- 
cellent young  friend,  whether  I  have  not,  at 
all  convenient  times,  bespoke  thy  commen- 
dation of  all  that  was  most  admirable  in 
classic  song  ?" 

"  That  have  you,  honored  sir,  and  I  thank 
you  very  heartily,"  replied  the  youthful 
Shakspeare.     Sir  Johan  looked  satisfied. 

'•  And  tell  me  this,  my  king  of  nightin- 
gales," cried  Master  Peregrine,  too  confident 
of  his  own  right  to  allow  of  being  deprived 
of  them.  "  Have  I  not  taken  opportunity  by 
the  hand  v.'ith  thee,  to  make  thee  familiar 
with  the  rarest  ballads  that  ever  were  writ  ?" 

"Indeed  you  have,  worthy  sir,  and  I  shall 
feel  beholden  to  you  all  my  life  long,"  an- 
swered the  young  poet.  Sir  Guy  never 
looked  sa  triumphant  as  did  our  antiquary. 

"  I  will  maintain,  those  verses  are  of  the 
true  lyric  fashion,"  obser\-ed  Sir  Johan,  "and 
therefore  they  cannot  help  being  the  result 
of  an  acquaintance  with  their  classic  pro- 
totype." 

"Classic  pudding!"  exclaimed  Master 
Peregrine,  getting  to  be  somewhat  in  a  rage. 


"  If  any  will  prove  to  me  these  verses  are 
Greek  verses,  or  Latin  verses  either,  then 
will  I  allow  they  came  of  such  teaching ; 
but  since  it  is  plain  to  common  sense,  that 
what  I  here  hold  is  a  ballad,  and,  moreover, 
an  English  ballad  of  the  true,  simple,  grace- 
ful, chaste  style  of  English  baliad  writing, 
methinks  it  shall  want  no  conjuror  to  say  it 
had  its  origin  in  that  inimitable  I'amous 
school,  and  oweth  not  one  jot  to  Greek  or 
Latin,  or  any  such  pitiful,  poor,  weak,  dull, 
shallow,  unprofitable  rubbish." 

Rubbish!"  cried  the  chaplain,  astonished 
and  indignant  in  no  small  measure  ;  and  he 
would  doubtless  have  expressed  himself  with 
some  force  to  that  efl'ect,  had  not  Sir  Mar- 
maduke  at  that  moment  stopped  him,  by 
asking  William  Shakspeare  if  he  had 
written  anything  of  the  sort  before.  To 
which  he  replied  it  was  his  first  attempt; 
and  to  further  questions  answered,  he  had 
been  reading  of  some  choice  love  songs,  and 
all  at  once  he  had  a  great  desire  to  essay 
something  of  a  like  kind.  Thereupon  he 
got  paper,  and  with  a  pen  wrote  those  lines, 
which,  not  thinking  much  of,  he  had  left  in 
the  book,  intending  to  try  and  do  something 
better  at  another  time.  This  made  all 
marvel  greatly. 

Certes,  it  was  far  out  of  ordinary  things  to 
find  one,  still  a  boy  as  it  might  be  said, 
wooing  of  the  Muses  in  such  proper  style. 
Yet,  though  none  saw  it,  there  had  been 
gradual  preparation  of  this  for  some  time. 
The  youthftd  poet  had  held  commimion  with 
the  philosophy  of  nature  for  years  past, 
through  that  spirit  of  intelligence  which 
breathes  o'er  all  which  belongeth  to  the 
beautiful  and  the  good.  He  Trad  laid  down 
to  dream  of  it;  he  had  woke  up  to  worship 
it.  Wherever  he  went  he  beheld  its  pre- 
sence. In  all  seasons  he  had  felt  its  influ- 
ence. The  voices  of  the  murmuring  river 
called  to  him  in  his  solitude — the  shadows 
of  the  deep  dark  woods  fell  upon  his  thoughts 
— the  opening  glade,  the  far-off  hills,  and 
the  fair  skies,  in  all  their  glorious  pageantry, 
haunted  his  hours  of  rest — the  silent  night 
rung  with  the  echoes  of  a  thousand  songs 
tuned  by  the  rarest  band  of  forest  choristers, 
and  even  in  the  chillest  winter,  when  the 
trees  bear  naught  but  icicles,  and  the  hard 
ground  is  smothered  with  frost  and  snow, 
where'er  he  walked  the  choicest  flowers 
bloomed  in  their  most  fragrant  robes — the 
sun  smiled  lovingly  before  his  eyes ;  and 
verdure,  sweetness,  and  beauty,  made  for 
him,  all  around,  a  garden  of  the  very  ex- 
quisitest  delight. 

But  of  late  he  had  felt  a  something  more 
than  this  ;  all  the  lovingest  things  of  nature 


no 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


he  had  made  of  his  familiar  acquaintance,  I 
and  had  found  in  tliem  such   wisdom   as 
nature  never  hath  bestowed  elsewhere  ;  but 
to  comprehend  this  wisdom  in   its  fullest 
meaning  required  the  assistance  of  an  in-  ] 
terpreter.    This  interpreter  was  Love.   This 
Love  though,  let  it  be  known,  as  yet  he  was  \ 
content  with  knowing  at  a  distance.     He  \ 
had  seen  of  him  but  httle,  just  enough  to, 
know  him  by,  and  liked  not  appearing  too  j 
bold  a  visitor,  but  rather  a  respectful  ac- 1 
quaintance  or  humble  poor  friend,  that  would  ^ 
be  glad  of  some  help,  but  dare  not,  out  of 
reverence,  attempt  any  such  familiarity  as 
the  acquainting  him  with  his  wants.    Never- 
theless he  had  managed  in  this  slight  com- 1 
panionsliip   to   acquire  at  his   hands  some  | 
small  portion  of  that  power  which  argueth 
a  knowledge  of  all  natural  wisdom — and 
that   was  poetry.     It  had  made  its  appear- 
ance like  a  fresli  pure  spring  trickling  in 
the  dclicatest,  clearest  drops  down  a   fair 
hill  covered  with  verdure  and  studded  with 
all  manner   of  sweet   blossoms ;  and   now 
having  it  at  its  source,  all  that  is  to  be  done 
is  to  trace  the  progress  of  the  stream,  till  it 
rushed  a  mighty  river  into  the  great  ocean 
of  immortaUty. 

Finding  tiiat  Sir  Valentine  had  gone  to 
join  a  hunting  party  some  miles  off,  the 
young  poet  bent  his  steps  homewards  in 
great  trouble  ol"  mind,  because  he  knew  not 
what  to  do  regarding  the  poor  foundling. 
As  he  was  crossing  the  field,  so  lost  in  his 
musings  as  to  be  perfectly  regardless  of  all 
other  things,  on  a  sudden  a  pair  of  hands 
from  some  one  beliind  caught  him  round  the 
head  and  blindfolded  him,  and  a  loud  laugh 
burst  from  several  voices,  after  that  fashion 
used  by  boys  when  they  have  succeeded  in 
playing  off  any  famous  drollery. 

"  Now  Will  !"  cried  one,  "  use  thy  wits,  1 
I  prithee,  and  tell  us  who  hath  hold  of  thee  ?" 
''  Nay,  lot  me  hear  tlie  voice,"  replied 
William  Shakspcare,  taking  their  pleas- 
antry in  very  good  part,  though  he  felt  not 
in  the  humor  to  join  in  it  as  lieartily  as  he 
was  wont. 

"  Odds  codlings,  that  thou  shalt,  I'll  war- 
rant," answered  a  trembling  old  woman's 
voice  close  behind  him  ;  "  for  as  I  was  a 
saying  no  later  than  the  week  before  last 
Martlemas,  over  a  brave  fire  in  the  chimney 

corner  of  Neighbor  Bavins ." 

"  Wliy,  Mother  Flytrap  !"  exclaimed  the 
youthful  Shakspearo,  who  had  listened  in 
exceeding  astonishment,  "how  didst  get  so 
close  to  mo  and  I  not  know  it  ?"  At  this 
the  laugli  was  louder  than  before. 

"  Here  is  a  vile  world  !"  cried  some  one 
in  the  dismalest  tones  ever  heard  ;  "  here  is 


a  monstrous  villainy  !  How  darest  thou  to 
do  such  intolerable  wickedness  as  to  play 
the  infamous  game  of  hot-cockles  in  so  holy 
a  place  as  the  church-yard  ?" 

'•  I,  Oliver  Dumps !"  exclaimed  the  blinded 
youth  in  huge  consternation  :  "  believe  me, 
1  have  not  played  at  hot-cockles  this  many  a 
day.''  Whereupon  the  young  rogues  ap- 
peared as  though  they  would  have  rolled 
themselves  in  the  grass  they  enjoyed  them- 
selves to  such  excess. 

'■  An'  it  jjul-pul-pul-pul  please  you,"  stut- 
tered another  familiar  voice,  "mum-nmm- 
mum-mum  master  says,  he  wer-vver-wer-wer 
wants  you  to  send  iiim  word — wer-vver-wer- 
wer  wiiat  sixpenny  gloves  are  a  pair !" 

"  Why,  sixpence,  to  be  sure,  Dickon," 
replied  tjie  other.  "  But  I  have  a  monstrous 
suspicion  thou  hast  teen  sent  on  a  fool's 
errand."  Upon  this  all  laughed  so  long  and 
loudly,  it  looked  as  if  there  would  be  no  end 
to  their  mirth. 

"  O'  my  life,  now  here  is  Tom  Greene  at 
his  tricks  again!"  said  Wilham  Shaks- 
peare  all  at  once,  for  the  other  had  betrayed 
himself  by  vainly  attempting  to  stifle  his 
laughter,  and  at  ihis  the  hands  were  taken 
off  his  eyes  amidst  the  uproarious  sliouting 
of  the  whole  party,  and  turning  round,  he 
beheld  his  old  schoolfellows,  Greene,  Bur- 
bage,  Condell,  and  Hemiugs,  staggering 
about  with  all  sorts  of  strange  motions,  and 
filling  the  air  with  peal  after  peal  of  laughing. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  another  matter,  Tom," 
said  the  youthful  Shakspeare,  "  else  should 
I  have  found  thee  out  much  sooner,  for  all 
thou  art  so  famous  a  mimic." 

"  Was  ever  so  rare  a  jest  played !"  ex- 
claimed one  with  a  liandsome  cheerful 
countenance.  "  No  hmigry  luce  ever  took 
a  hooked  gudgeon  more  unsuspiciously  than 
did  Will  Tom's  well-managed  baits.  Mother 
Flytrap,  Oliver  Dumps,  and  stuttering  Dic- 
kon, he  would  liave  sworn  were  behind  him 
with  as  little  remorse  as  a  i)ig  eats  chesnuts  ; 
yet  I  will  forswear  pippins  and  marchpane 
if  any  other  spoke  save  Tom  Greene." 

"  ffaitii !  the  cheat  was  well  managed, 
Dick,  I  will  allow,"  answered  young  Will ; 
"  but  Tom  is  so  Proteus  a  varlet,  'tis  an 
easy  matter  for  him  to  play  the  old  woman, 
or  perchance  make  such  a  wittol  of  himself 
as  Dickon,  or  even  take  otF  the  melancholy 
constable  till  sudi  time  as  the  melunciioly 
constable  may  cluxwe  to  take  off  iiim." 

"  Wiiat,  wouldsl  have  mo  in  the  stocks, 
thou  rogue  !"  exclaimed  Tom  very  merrily. 
'■  Marry !  1  like  not  such  liose  to  my  legs. 
But  come,  let  us  jilay  a  play,  Will ;  we 
liave  not  liad  that  pleasant  pastime  of  ours 
!  for  weeks  oast  " 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


Ill 


"  A  play,  Will — a  play,  I  prithee !"  cried 
Dick  Burbage.  "  We  have  been  looking  for 
thee  far  and  near,  for  I  have  got  me  a  riglit 
mirthful  interlude  wliich  my  father  hath  left 
behind  him,  and  if  thou  wilt  take  a  part,  we 
will  do  it  in  brave  style,  I  warrant." 

"  Nay,  let  us  have  (Jammer  Gnrton 
again!"  said  a  stout  sturdy  little  fellow, 
rather  urgently. 

"  Thou  art  ever  for  playing  Gammer  Gur- 
ton,  Condell,"  observed  a  tall,  sharp-looking 
boy.  "  Let  us  have  that  goodly  play  of  tlie 
Four  P's.  Will  Shakspeare  can  do  the 
Poticary,  Dick  Burbage  the  Pedlar,  Tom 
Greene  the  Pardoner,  and  I  the  Palmer." 

"  And  prithee,  wliat  shall  I  do  in  it,  Hem- 
ings  ?'■  asked  Condell. 

"  As  I  live,  thou  shalt  have  enough  to  do !" 
replied  his  companion  ;  "  for  thou  shalt  play 
the  part  of  all  the  spectators."  At  hearing 
this  there  was  another  good  laugh  amongst 
them. 

"  At  present  I  have  neither  time  nor  hu- 
mor for  playing,"  answered  William  Shaks- 
peare ;  '■  nor  can  I  tarry  a  moment  longer, 
for  pressing  matters  hurry  me  away."  This 
answer  was  evidently  but  little  relished  by 
any  of  the  party,  and  they  tried  no  lack  of 
entreaties  and  persuasion  to  get  him  to  join 
in  their  sports.  Nevertheless  they  could  not 
prevail  in  any  way,  and  finding  such  to  be 
the  case,  they  parted  with  him  at  the  top  of 
Henley-street,  and  straightway  made  for  a 
field  called  Salisbury-piece  to  have  a  play  by 
themselves. 

Jolm  Shakspeare  had  been  enquiring  of 
the  neighbors  the  whole  morning  long  ;  but 
getting  no  intelligence  of  his  son,  he  had 
returned  with  a  little  misgiving  to  his  anxi- 
ous wife.  With  her  he  found  the  Widow 
Pippins,  in  as  merry  a  mood  as  ever,  and 
Mistress  Malmsey  and  Mistress  Dowlas 
looking  with  such  kindness  and  comeliness 
as  if  they  never  intended  to  lessen  the 
pleasantness  of  their  features  or  behavior  ; 
and  they  had  stepped  in,  hearing  that  Wil- 
liam was  not  to  be  found,  to  oHer  their  ad- 
vice and  sympathy,  and  hopes  for  the  best, 
to  their  somewhat  desponding  neighbor. 
The  widow  had  just  described  an  exquisite 
jest  she  had  played  upon  a  drunken  falconer, 
by  abstracting  the  game  from  his  bag,  and 
putting  tiierein  a  litter  of  kittens  she  had 
drowned  the  day  before,  and  the  aldermen's 
wives  were  laughing  heartily  to  induce  their 
sad  hearted  gossip  to  follow  their  goodly 
example.  At  this  moment  returned  John 
Shakspeare  from  his  fruitless  errand,  who 
was  assailed  by  a  whole  succession  of  ques- 
tions from  all  the  women,  to  which  his  an- 
swers appeared  in  no  way  satisfactory,  for 


though  they  spoke  very  forcible  their  con- 
victions, ho  was  in  this  place  or  in  tliat, 
beyond  all  contradiction,  they  marvelled 
exceedingly  where  he  could  have  got  to. 

"  It  is  so  little  like  him  to  play  the  tru- 
ant with  us,"  observed  Dame  Shakspeare, 
striving  to  appear  more  satisfied  with  the 
matter  than  she  was.  "Indeed,  he  giveth 
me  but  small  cause  of  blame,  save  tliat  he 
will  sometimes  be  poring  over  a  book  when 
he  should  be  laking  of  his  proper  rest." 

"  Well,  it  doth  puzzle  me  famously  to 
know  what  some  folks  see  in  books,"  said 
the  merry  widow.  "  For  mine  own  part,  1 
care  not  for  the  best  that  ever  was  writ, 
unless  it  be  a  book  of  jests  or  riddles,  and 
then  I  must  have  some  one  to  read  them,  for 
reading  never  took  to  me,  and  therefore  'tis 
natural  I  never  took  to  reading.  By  my 
troth,  now  I  do  remember  a  fine  jest  as  ever 
was  played  upon  Sir  Nathaniel,  with  a  cer- 
tain book  of  riddles  that  was  left  at  my  house 
by  a  strolling  minstrel." 

The  widow  Pippins  had  scarce  com- 
menced her  narrative,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  he  whom  they  had  been  in  such  travail 
about,  made  his  appearance.  All  manner  of 
exclamations  saluted  his  entrance ;  some 
began  to  scold,  and  some  to  question,  but  he 
took  no  heed  of  them  till  he  had  received  his 
mother's  caresses,  and  then  very  readily 
made  them  acquainted  with  all  that  had 
happened  to  him.  Here  was  famous  matter 
for  marvelling,  and  none  of  the  gossips  al- 
lowed it  to  lie  idle  on  their  hands.  The 
aldermen's  v.'ives,  who  knew  every  body  and 
everything,  entered  into  a  famous  history 
of  Mabel.  As  for  the  forcible  abduction, 
some  considered  it  done  by  the  parents  to 
recover  their  child  secretly,  others  suspected 
it  was  a  scheme  of  Tom  Lucy,  assisted  by 
some  of  his  college  companions  as  wild  as 
himself,  with  no  honest  intention,  but  the 
widow  stuck  out  it  was  nothing  more  than 
a  jest  of  Sir  Thomas'  to  afford  himself  a  new 
subject  for  boasting  of  his  marvellous  clever- 
ness in  the  playing  of  tricks. 

Having  exhausted  all  they  had  to  say 
upon  the  subject,  the  gossips  took  their  de- 
parture, and  .John  Shakspeare  was  left  to  the 
society  of  his  wife  and  children.  Of  him  it 
may  be  necessary  here  to  say,  he  had  gone 
on  struggling,  but  the  same  reverses  met  all 
his  exertions.  He  could  scarce  get  a  living 
even  in  the  humblest  manner,  and  he  was 
often  reduced  to  the  saddest  shifts  that  pov- 
erty can  endure,  but  he  went  on  with  the 
same  resolution,  making  no  complaint  to  any, 
and  striving  to  appear  as  contented  as  the 
rest.  As  for  John  a  Combe,  he  proceeded 
much  in  the  same  way — unsocial,  uncharita- 


112 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


ble,  careless  of  his  own  comforts,  and  heed- 
less of  that  of  others — never  opening  his 
mouth  to  any  person,  save  in  the  way  of  bu- 
siness, unk'ris  to  breathe  such  bitterness  of 
heart  as  siiowed  the  fearful  change  that  liad 
come  over  his  once  noble  and  generous  na- 
ture. But  what  had  worked  this  i'earful 
change  none  knew.  The  effects  were  ter- 
ribly conspicuous.  Every  one  bclield  them 
and  grieved  at  them  ;  and  jjut  up  witli  liis 
uncivilness  oiit  of  respect  lor  the  honorable- 
ness  of  his  behavior  at  au  earlier  time.  Yet 
of  the  cause  the  most  knowing  oJ'  the  gossijis 
of  the  town  knew  nothing  whatever.  They 
marvelled  more  and  more  every  day,  till  its 
commonness  took  off'  the  edge  of  their  won- 
der. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  subject  of  all  verse 
Sydney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother. 

Ben  Jonson. 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 

That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags  in  vain  ; 

My  lady's  beauty  pnsseth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  faine, 

Than  doth  the  sun  the  candle  light, 

Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

Lord  Surrey. 

Art  thou  my  son,  that  miracle  of  wit, 

Who  once,  within  these  three  months,  wert  es- 
teemed 

A  wonder  of  thine  age  throughout  Bononia  ? 

How  did  the  university  applaud 

Thy  government,  behavior,  learning,  speech. 

Sweetness,  and  all  thnt  could  make  up  a  man  !" 

Ford. 

Both  flowers  and  weeds  spring  when  the  sun  is 
warm. 

And  great  men  do  great  good  or  else  great  harm. 

Webster. 

In  an  ante-room  adjoining  of  the  Queen's 
presence-chamber,  in  her  highness's  j)alace 
of  Nonsuch,  there  was  a  fiimous  company 
of  lords  and  ladies  in  different  groups,  llere 
would  be  a  famous  party  of  gallants  paying 
of  their  court  to  tin;  fairest  of  the  throng, 
whereof  the  greater  number  were  exceeding 
fair,  and  she  was  no  other  than  Lady  Rich, 
usually  styled  "The  boautirul  Lady  Rich," 
and  well  she  deserved  so  admirable  a  title, 
for  nought  could  exceed  the  swet;t  e.\(|uisite- 
ness  with  which  the  lily  and  the  rose  united 
their  choicest  graces  to  deck  her  delicate 
cheek  ;  or  the  soft  sid)duing  light  that  shone 
so  delightsomely  within  the  fountains  of  her 
radiant  looks.     All  her  features  were  of  the 


same  unrivalled  perfectness,  and  over  them 
the  spirit  of  beauty  breathed  so  wooingly, 
that  such  as  gazed  upon  the  temple  were  ir- 
resistibly drawn  there  to  pay  their  devotions. 
Foremost  in  the  circle  of  her  admirers  wa^ 
one  who,  by  the  choiceness  of  his  dress,  the 
neatness  ot  his  speech, and  the  studied  court- 
liness of  his  manner,  was  manifestly  born 
only  to  sliine  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  court. 
Every  thing  about  him  s|;oke  the  desire  to 
please,  and  the  ready  smile  that  accompa- 
nied the  delicate  flattery,  appeared  to  prove 
how  aptly  he  could  receive  pleasure  of  ano- 
ther. This  was  Sir  Christopher  Ilatton.  the 
very  mirror  of  courtesy  and  text-book  of  com- 
pliment, and  the  most  finished  courtier  of  his 
day.  His  apparel  was  not  more  dainty  than 
his  phrases,  and  Ins  behavior  was  of  a  kind 
fittest  to  accord  with  both.  He  moved  as 
though  he  thought  himself  under  the  eyes 
of  the  graces,  having  every  gesture  so  prop- 
erly produced,  it  went  not  a  hair's  breadth 
from  the  most  graceful  position  that  could 
be  accomplished  under  the  circumstances. 
His  features  were  so  fashioned  as  to  make 
all  fair  weather  in  his  calendar.  The  sun 
shone  every  day  in  the  week.  There  was 
no  winter,  no  clouds,  no  eclipses.  He  would 
as  soon  have  hanged  himself  as  frowned. — 
He  would  sooner  have  thrown  himself  into 
the  Thames  river  than  allowed  an  uncivil 
word  to  escape  him.  What  was  his  age  it 
would  be  difficult  to  guess  with  any  exact- 
ness, for  as  he  had  been  heard  to  say  he  con- 
sidered age  to  be  an  exceeding  vulgjir  fellow 
with  whom  he  would  liold  no  ac(iaintance, 
it  is  possible  he  disguised  himself  as  much 
as  he  could  to  prevent  his  being  known  by 
so  rude  a  person. 

But  Sir  Christopher  was  not  without  pos- 
sessing something  of  other  talent  beside  the 
courtly  accomplisl)ments  of  fencing,  danc- 
ing, and  compliment,  nevertheless  his  whole 
ambition  was  to  apply  such  gift  as  part  of 
the  necessary  appliances  of  a  courtier,  and 
he  never  made  use  of  it,  save  oidy  to  help 
him  at  a  pinch  to  exhibit  his  continual  de- 
sire to  jilease.  About  him  were  divers  gal- 
lants and  young  gentlemen  of  the  palace, 
who  looked  up  to  him  as  their  moilol,  and 
framed  their  speech,  their  apparel,  and  their 
behavior  as  nigh  as  might  be  to  their  great 
original.  His  last  phrase  by  their  means 
travelled  quickly  to  all  persons  choice  in 
their  speech  ;  and  it  was  by  tlie  same  as- 
sistance the  last  new  stej)  of  his  came  into 
use  amongst  such  as  wished  to  be  consi- 
dered tlie  very  fashionablcst  dancers  of  tJie 
time. 

In  the  recess  of  a  window  (hat  KKiked  out 
uj)on  the  grounds  wore  another  group,  the 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


118 


C3niosure  of  which  appeared  to  be  a  lady  of  a 
most  delectable  presence,  whoso  ample  deli- 
cate forehead  and  intcllig'ent  gaze,  gave  to- 
ken of  as  rare  a  mind  as  ever  was  wortliy 
of  the  choicest  and  Ijeautifulest  framing. — 
She  was  a  notable  instance  of  woman's  per- 
fectness — -whose  moving  graces  created  the 
exquisitest  thoughts  in  the  minds  of  those 
gifted  ones  who  came  within  their  influence  ; 
but  the  poetry  of  lier  own  nature  was  full  as 
exquisite  as  any  that  she  called  into  being. 
Her  voice  breathed  its  very  atmosphere — 
and  her  eyes  were  such  bright  casements, 
within  which  it  hath  ever  loved  to  find  its 
home.  It  is  no  marvel  then  she  should  be 
so  much  the  admiration  of  all  true  lovers  of 
excellence — tiiat  her  good  opinion  should  be 
so  much  coveted  of  such  as  sought  after 
praise  that  is  the  most  valuable,  or  that  her 
smiles  made  wherever  sire  went  a  midsum- 
mer garden  of  the  mind's  unfading  flowers. 
Methinks  'tis  scarce  necessary  to  add  that 
her  perfect  modesty  kept  worthy  companion- 
ship with  her  noble  mind,  for  it  may  be  ta- 
ken as  an  indisputable  truth  that  high  intelli- 
gence doth  ever  signify  the  presence  of  mo- 
ral feelings  equally  exalted.  Be  sure  that 
where  the  mind  displays  itself  in  its  most 
sterling  character,  there  is  no  alloy  of  any 
baseness.  It  is  clean  impossible  it  can  be 
otherwise,  for  however  it  may  sometimes 
seem,  nature  allovveth  of  no  such  unnatural 
alliances.  Signs  of  great  intellect  may  ap- 
pear where  want  of  goodness  is  equally  ma- 
nifest, but  the  former  of  these  signs  on  close 
scrutiny,  turn  out  to  be  not  so  admirable  as 
they  loolc— in  fact,  instead  of  being  the  ster- 
ling gold  in  its  native  purity,  tiiey  are  only 
such  ores  as  require  so  much  cleansing  to 
put  them  into  use,  as  will  hardly  repay  the 
labor.  It  may  perchance  have  been  found, 
that  this  preciousness  hath  had  a  bad  look 
with  it,  but  it  only  followeth  of  the  rubs  it 
may  get  of  such  base  things  as  it  may  come 
in  contact  with.  It  is  still  as  sterling  as 
ever,  despite  appearances ;  and  fair  usage 
will  keep  it  in  that  brightness  it  ought  al- 
ways to  v/ear. 

Leaning  affectionately  over  the  countess's 
chair,  was  a  young  gallant  of  a  like  noble 
brow,  and  of  an  aspect  somewhat  similar  in 
its  intelligent  expression.  There  was  some- 
thing more  of  gravity,  and  tiiere  was  some- 
thing less  of  sweetness  in  the  countenance,yct 
there  were  the  same  highmindedness  beam- 
ing out  of  the  sparkling  eyes,  and  a  similar 
thoughtful  eloquence  smiling  around  the 
corners  of  the  delicate  mouth.  It  was  easy 
to  be  seen  by  this  likeness  and  by  the  tender 
familiarity  with  which  one  behaved  to  the 
other,  that  they  stood  in  some  relationship. 


They  were  brother  and  sister.  Such  a  bro- 
ther and  sister  as  the  world  sees  not  in  many 
ages, — perchance,  may  never  see  again,  for 
they  were  not  more  alike  in  the  admirable- 
ness  of  their  outward  lineaments,  than  they 
were  in  all  manner  of  moral  and  mental 
qualities. 

'Where  shall  we  meet  with  another  Count- 
ess of  Pembroke, — the  ready  patroness  of 
merit,  yet  outshining  all  merit  with  her  own 
— ever  ready  to  pay  her  homage  to  virtue, 
yet  in  herself  possessing  such  virtue  as  ex- 
ceeded all  other  examples  ?  And  where 
shall  we  look  for  another  Sir  Philip  Sydney 
— the  soul  of  honor,  the  spirit  of  chivalry, 
the  courtliest  among  the  courtly,  and  the 
bravest  among  the  brave — though  scarcely 
in  the  full  dawning  of  his  manhood,  his  wis- 
dom went  beyond  that  of  the  most  experi- 
enced counsellors,  and  though  formed  by  the 
choicest  gifts  of  nature  to  till  the  proudest 
seats  in  tiie  chiefest  places  of  greatness,  his 
ambition  never  went  beyond  the  performing 
of  valiant  and  generous  deeds,  writing  wor- 
thily on  honorable  subjects,  living  v/ith  a 
proper  respect,  and  dying  with  a  becoming 
nobleness.  In  him  knighthood  possessed  its 
last  and  rarest  ornament,  and  manhood  one 
of  its  most  admirable  examples.  Genius  ac- 
knowledged him  as  her  son,  and  honor 
claimed  him  as  her  champion  ;  and  every 
virtue  that  could  grace  humanity,  where  all 
in  him  that  was  human  was  of  so  gracious 
a  nature,  might  justly  have  put  forth  a  boast, 
that  in  him  they  showed  to  the  world  how 
well  they  could  adorn  a  man. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  that  this  truly 
gallant  gentleman  was  the  love,  the  model, 
and  the  admiration  of  all  the  gallant  hearts 
of  his  age.  Indeed,  by  such  as  possessed 
the  genuine  chivalrous  spirit,  he  was  re- 
garded as  a  sort  of  deity.  They  considered 
no  station  so  great  as  to  be  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  no  honor  so  estimable  as  to  have 
his  praise.  It  therefore  followeth  very  na- 
turally that  Sir  Reginald  and  Sir  Valentine 
should  have  eagerly  sought  his  friendship, 
the  which  their  valor  and  honorable  conduct 
had  gained  for  them  ;  and  this  known,  it  is 
in  no  way  surprising  the  former  of  these 
young  knights  should  now  be  standing  at 
his  elbow,  joining  in  the  conversation  with 
Master  Arthur  Gorges,  a  young  gallant  of 
great  worthiness, — my  Lord  Euckhurst,  a 
nobleman  favorably  known  to  the  muses,  and 
divers  other  knights  and  nobles,  whose  love 
of  song  went  hand  in  hand  with  their  admira- 
tion of  true  valor. 

Besides  these  there  were  a  great  crowd  of 
nobles,  knights,  and  ladies,  gallants,  courti- 
ers, officers  of  the  queen's  household,  com- 


114 


TIIE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


manders  by  sea  and  land,  learned  judges, 
grave  prelates,  and  others  of  lier  highness's 
loving  subjects  of  different  ranks  and  condi- 
tions, intent  upon  paying  of  their  court  to 
their  sovereign,  as  soon  as  she  concluded 
her  audience  with  certain  ambassadors  with 
whom  siie  was  now  closeti;d.  There  was  a 
great  variety  in  tiie  colors  of  the  different 
rich  stuffs,  but  with  the  exception  of  some 
few  in  their  robes,  every  gallant  wore  the 
same  fashioned  doublet,  trunks,  hose,  and 
shoe-roses,  and  every  lady  the  same  long- 
stomached  dress  with  a  stiff  poking-out  far- 
thingale. Some  were  whiling  the  time  by 
admiring  the  figures  on  the  cloth  of  tissue. 
The  commanders  were  conversing  of  the  j 
famous  good  fortune  of  Sir  Fi-ancis  Drake, 
in  his  last  voyage.  The  minister.-:  were  spe-  ' 
culating  on  the  probability  of  the  queen's 
marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Anjou.  The  I 
courtiers  amused  themselves  with  tales  con- 
cerning of  the  differences  between  my  Lord  ! 
of  Leicester  and  the  Earl  of  Susse.x.  The  j 
gallants  were  putting  off  their  last  learned  j 
graces  of  behavior  on  such  of  the  fair  dames 
they  could  get  to  heed  them.  The  ladies 
were  conversing  either  of  the  newest  Ve-  | 
netian  fashion,  or  the  latest  jest  of  Master 
Tarleton,  her  highness's  jester.  And  the 
judges  and  prelates  were  lamenting  together 
the  intolerable  evils  of  witchcraft  and  pa- 
pistry ;  but  the  circle  around  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke  and  Sir  Philip  Sydney  were  bc- 
wiling  the  hour  in  a  manner  more  profitable 
to  themselves  than  did  any  of  the  others,  as 
I  will  hen"  endeavor  to  show. 

"  Touching  the  capabilities  of  our  nature," 
observed  that  illustrious  scholar,  '"  I  am  in- 
clined to  believe  there  is  no  greatness  it 
may  not  aim  at.  But  there  can  be  no  true 
greatness  independent  of  the  affections,  for 
Qiese  are  the  springs  that  do  refresh  the 
ground,  and  make  it  bear  the  noblest  and 
choicest  plants  at  all  proper  seasons." 

"  I  cannot  help  thinking  the  same  thing," 
added  his  sister.  "  Perchance  there  have 
been  philosophers  to  whom  all  such  feeling 
as  love  a  ppeared  utterly  unknown  ;  they 
might  have  scoffed  at  it  in  themselves  and 
ridiculed  it  in  otliers  ;  but  such  examples 
should  be  looked  upon  as  the  result  of  unnatu- 
ral circumstiinces — like  unto  llowers  that  lose 
their  color  by  growing  in  the  dark — or  fruits 
that  part  with  their  liavor  by  being  planted 
in  an  improper  climate.  That  is  sure  to  be 
the  truest  wisdom  that  comcth  of  the  most 
benevolent  mind,  for  it  embraces  the  \\hole 
world  with  some  everlasting  truth  which 
hath  universal  happiness  lor  its  object  ; 
whilst  the  philosophy  of  such  as  have  no 
such  feeling  in  their  hearts  can  be  born  only 


of  books  ;  they  are  mere  scholars  tliat  have 
no  better  object  in  view  than  raising  them- 
selves above  their  fellows,  instead  of  striv- 
ing to  raise  themselves  up  to  them.  Such  a 
philosopher  attains  celebrity  only  by  feedinn- 
on  those  who  went  before  him  : — his  cunning 
is  of  a  like  kind  with  that  of  the  serpent  of 
JMoses,  which  swallowed  up  all  the  rest." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Sir  Philip  Sydney  ;  '•  for 
if  we  notice  how  love  works  upon  the  mind, 
wo  shall  readily  come  at  the  philosophy  of 
the  artcctions.  Taking  the  two  examples 
of  this  feeling  in  ordinary  acceptance,  to  wit, 
the  lover  and  the  philanthropist,  we  imme- 
diately see  how  generous  love  hath  made 
them  in  their  notions, — the  one  is  ready  to 
imdertakc  any  danger  in  the  conviction  of 
his  mistress's  superiority  to  all  her  sex  ;  the 
other  would  make  any  sacrifice  to  benefit 
those  who  required  hi.-?  assistance,  in  the 
express  belief  of  the  worthiness  of  the  whole 
human  race.  The  valor  of  love  is  equal  to 
its  generosity  ;  and  methinks  these  twins  of 
comeliness  will  be  found  together  in  every 
example  of  a  true  knight  and  complete 
gentleman.  Nothing  can  be  so  valiant  as 
love,  which  makes  so  undeniable  the  Latin 
adage  which  declareth  that  love  conquereth 
all  things, — for  love  hath  achieved  the 
brightest  deeds  tha,t  are  tlie  glor}-  of  chivalry. 
But  as  love  graiiteth  whatever  is  most  ad- 
mirable to  the  object  of  its  regard,  it  seeketh 
by  all  honorable  means  to  make  itself  of  a 
like  perfectness  ;  and  is  thus  by  degrees  led 
to  the  attainment  of  the  noblest  offices,  and 
to  the  possession  of  tlic  most  honorable  ac- 
complishments tliat  can  be  acquired." 

"  So  I  have  thought,  though,  as  must 
needs  be  not  in  so  excellent  a  fasiiion  !"  ob- 
served Sir  Reginald. 

"  But  surely  there  is  a  vast  distinction 
between  what  is  called  gallantry  and  genu- 
ine affection  ?"  exclaimed  Lord  Buckhurst. 
"  There  are  hundreds  of  fine  popinjays  to  be 
met  with,  protesting  a  monstrous  affection- 
atencss  for  everj-  woman  they  meet,  and  I 
never  saw  in  them  any  of  the  virtues  of 
which  you  spoke." 

"  So  tliere  are  hundreds  that  affect  great 
religiousness,"  observed  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
"  which  is  done  not  out  of  any  true  reve- 
rence, but  merely  because  it  is  the  fashion. 
But  geniiine  gallantry  is  of  an  exceeding 
difi'erent  nature.  It  is  of  a  kin  with  that 
ancient  worship  that  honored  all  deities 
alike.  Nevertheless,  even  in  these  instances 
there  will  be  found  a  niche  in  the  temple  of 
the  heart  dedicated  to  the  service  of  some 
unknown  god ;  and  throughout  the  whole 
nature  there  exists  a  continual  anxiousness 
to  have  that  place  worthily   supphed.     In 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


115 


good  time  such  desire  is  accomplished  ;  and 
be  assbred,  the  idol  there  placed  hath  more 
worship  than  all  the  rest  together." 

"  The  true  worship  of  love  is  goodness," 
added  the  Countess ;  "  and  it  is  a  sign  by 
which  genuine  affection  may  always  be  dis- 
tinguished from  mere  profession.  True 
love  is  purity,  honesty,  truth,  honor,  cour- 
tesy, and  bravery  confessed  in  action.  Where 
there  is  any  meanness,  where  there  is  any  sel- 
fishness, where  there  is  ought  of  falsehood,  im- 
modesty, uncivilness,  cowardice,  or  villainy, 
love  never  abideth.  Doubtless  some  may  as- 
sert this  sweetener  of  life  hath  been  found  with 
some  such  base  accompaniments  as  I  have 
just  named  ;  but  out  of  all  doubt  the  latter  is 
entirely  different,  and  should  be  avoided  for 
its  unwhoiesomeness.  It  is  like  unto  such 
honey  as  divers  sorts  of  wild  bees  have  been 
known  to  make  from  poisonous  flowers." 

"  But  how  rarely  shall  we  find  this  love 
in  all  its  perfectness  and  purity  !"  exclaimed 
Lord  Buckhurst. 

"  Nay,  my  good  lord,  it  is  none  so  rare  !" 
replied  Sir  Reginald,  with  some  earnestness. 
"  Wherever  woman  hath  a  fair  field  for  the 
development  of  her  infinite  perfections,  such 
love  will  follow,  as  naturally  as  light  springs 
from  the  sun  ;  and  to  a  knowledge  of  these 
absolute  graces  originated  that  proud  sense 
of  honor,  and  true  nobleness  of  feeling  in 
man,  which  hath  done  such  i'amous  achieve- 
ments througiiout  Christendom,  under  the 
estimable  name  of  chivalry." 

"  True,  Sir  Reginald,"  observed  Sir 
Philip  Sydney,  with  a  glance  of  approbation 
at  his  young  friend.  "  There  are  two  states 
of  society,  in  all  outward  appearance  as  far 
asunder  as  are  the  poles — where  true  love 
is  ever  to  be  met  with.  The  one  is  the 
courtly  em.pire  of  knights  and  ladies,  which 
produceth  the  gallantest  deeds  and  the 
honorablcst  behavior — the  other  is  the  sim- 
ple republic  of  shepherds  and  sheperd- 
esses,  where  innocence  is  crowned  with  a 
garland  of  the  freshest  flowers  of  the  field, 
and  honesty  jogs  merrily  along,  enjoying  the 
I  pleasant  minstrelsy  of  the  pipe  and  tabour." 
I  "  Which  think  you,  is  the  happiest  state  ?" 

inquired  Master  Arthur  Gorges. 

"  That  in  which  the  wants  are  the  fewest, 
and  the  desires  of  easiest  attainment,"  re- 
]ilied  the  other.  "  It  is  doubtful  to  which 
we  ought  to  give  the  preference.  Happiness 
may  exist  indifferently  in  either  state ; 
but  according  to  what  we  know  of  Arca- 
dian manners,  these  same  swains  and 
nymphs  must  have  enjoyed  the  most  blame- 
less sweet  life  ever  heard  of.  I  cannot  ima- 
gine any  more  moving  picture  than  a  choice 
company  of  such,  tending  of  their  woolly 


flocks  in  the  fresh  pastures — or  in  the  cool 
eventide  dancing  away  tlie  joyous  hours, 
with  tiieir  sweet  music  ;  whilst  in  some 
green  arbor  nigh  at  hand,  the  enamored 
Colin  whispers  a  loye  tale  to  his  blushing 
Daphne,  and  the  seniors  of  the  village  sit 
under  the  shadow  of  the  friendly  trees, 
quaffing  the  rich  juices  of  tiieir  vineyards,  and 
telling  of  marvellous  stories  and  merry  jests." 

"  Ha  !  cousin  Philip,  art  there  again  !" 
exclaimed  the  Earl  of  Leicester  in  a  plea- 
sant manner,  as  he  entered  the  circle,  cloth- 
ed with  such  gorgeousness  as  far  exceeded 
all  the  tiring  around.  "  Why  thy  moving 
descriptions  of  Arcadian  life  will  presently 
make  all  persons  of  worship  in  a  frenzy  to 
attain  the  like  happiness.  My  Lord  Burgh- 
ley  sweareth  he  hath  serious  thoughts  of 
retiring  from  court,  and  keeping  sheep  at 
Theobalds.  Sir  Christopher  Hatton  hath 
been  heard,  for  hours  together,  practising  on 
a  small  pipe,  in  hopes  of  getting  the  queen's 
ladies  to  dance  to  his  piping  in  the  true 
rural  style  ;  and  as  for  myself,  I  have  been 
looking  for  weeks  past  for  a  crook  and  a 
shepherdess,  that  I  may  in  the  very  proper- 
est  munner  sit  me  down  in  some  enamelled 
plain,  and  there  happily  live  out  the  re- 
mainder of  my  days,  dividing  of  my  cares 
betwixt  my  lambs  and  my  love." 

"  xMethinks,  my  lord,  you  would  soon  pine 
for  the  pleasant  pageantries  you  had  left 
behind,"  observed  the  countess,  with  a 
smile. 

"  The  gentle  shepherd  would  be  ever  a 
sighing  to  be  once  again  the  most  accom- 
plished knight  in  the  tourney,"  added  Sir 
Philip  Sydney  with  a  like  pleasantness.  "He 
would  be  right  glad  to  change  his  seat  on 
the  enamelled  plain  for  the  saddle  of  his 
good  steed — his  crook  for  a  spear — his  flock 
for  a  company  of  valiant  knights — and  his 
faithful  shepherdess  for  as  many  fiiir  ladies 
as  he  could  get  to  witness  his  admirable 
matchless  prowess." 

"  Nay,  prithee  try  me  ere  I  am  condemn- 
ed," answered  the  earl,  laughingly.  "  I 
doubt  hugely  I  should  be  so  easily  tired. 
For  is  there  not  a  famous  variety  of  amuse- 
ments ?  Could  I  not  delight  niyself  by  carv- 
ing of  my  true  love's  name  v.dierever  I  could, 
till  there  should  be  found  more  Chloes  on  a 
tree  than  acorns  ?  and  then  would  I  not  sing 
such  songs  against  the  rival  swains  of  her 
unmatchable  rare  beauties,  that  they  should 
be  dumb  ever  after ;  and  play  on  my  pipe 
till  the  feathered  choristers  of  the  grove 
would  hold  themselves  silent  to  learn  of  my 
wondrous  skill." 

"  Perchance  it  may  be  so,  my  good  lord," 
said  the  countess  in  the  same  good  humor ; 


116 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  but  take  it  not  as  a  want  of  courtesy  in 
me,  if  I  doubt  the  possibility  of  so  great  a 
marvel." 

"  Now,  without  flattery,  never  met  T  so 
perfect  a  disbeliever,"  exclaimed  Leicester, 
gallantly.  "I  would  the  fates  had  so  or- 
dered it  as  to  have  made  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke  an  Arcadian  shepherdess,  and  I 
her  scarce  worthy,  yet  too  happy  swain. 
-Methinks  so  enviable  a  lot  exceedeth  all 
honor  of  chivalry ;  and  whether  in  the  valley 
or  the  grove,  at  the  dance,  or  tendincr  of  my 
flock,  believe  me  the  enjoyment  of  such 
rare  happiness  would  put  out  of  mind,  as 
things  only  to  be  despised,  such  poor  plea- 
sures and  distinctions  as  I  have  now  in  my 
possession." 

"  I  am  bound  to  you,  my  lord,  for  enter- 
taining of  such  thoughts,"  replied  his  ac- 
complished companion,  courteously ;  "  yet  am 
I  still  of  opinion,  the  noble  place  you  now 
occupy  would  content  you  more  than  the 
most  perfect  state  of  shepherd  life  that  is  to 
be  found.  For  as  it  is,  you  have  in  your 
power  infinite  opportunities  of  doing  good, 
Dy  affording  your  counsel  and  assistance  to 
all  such  wortliy  objects  as  may  require  it ; 
whilst  by  your  prominence  in  the  public  eye, 
you  can,  by  acting  as  becomes  your  dignity, 
be  an  example  of  honor  that  ever  honorable 
nature  would  be  glad  to  copy." 

"  Such  I  will  strive  to  be  with  all  my 
heart,"  exclaimed  the  Earl,  with  a  seeming 
great  sincerity.  '■  Indeed  the  most  pleasur- 
able part  of  the  high  station  in  which  for- 
tune, rather  than  my  poor  ability,  hath  plac- 
ed me,  I  find  to  consist  in  the  benefits  1  am 
enabled  to  confer  on  deserving  persons. 
Nothing  delighteth  me  more  than  to  honor 
merit  as  it  deserves  ;  and  I  would  gladly  go 
out  of  my  way  any  distance  to  meet  with 
some  worthy  creature  whom  I  could  make 
happy." 

Every  one  was  famously  pleased  at  hear- 
ing of  so  proper  a  speech  from  the  Queen's 
favorite  *,  but  such  was  his  usual  manner, 
and  such  his  customary  words. 

"Finding  you,  my  good  lord,  in  this 
happy  mood,"  observed  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
"  I  would  crave  your  countenance  in  behalf 
of  a  worthy  friend  of  mine,  who  would  bo 
right  proud  of  possessing  it." 

"  Say  who  ho  is,  and  be  assured  of  his 
merits  receiving  proper  attention  at  my 
hands,"  said  Leicester. 

"His  name  is  Edmund  Spenser,"  replied 
the  other ;  "  and  I  look  upon  him  to  be  as 
true  a  poet  as  ever  wrote  verse." 

"Prithee  bring  him  to  me  whenever  it 
suits  yo\i,"  said  the  Earl,  in  his  most  win- 
ning manner.    "  I  am  all  impatient  to  be 


acquainted  with  one  who  hath  acquired  such 
high  honor  as  to  be  so  lauded  of  Sir  Philip 
Sydney." 

"  Believe  me,  my  brother  hath  said  no 
more  than  the  worthiness  of  Master  Spen- 
ser gives  him  title  to,"  added  the  Countess. 
"  As  far  as  I  am  capable  of  judging,  he  is 
one  whom  future  ages  will  delight  to  rever- 
ence." 

"  Pfaith,  this  Master  Spenser  hath  great 
good  fortune,  methinks,  to  have  his  merits 
so  approved  by  two  such  absolute  judges," 
cried  1-eicester.  "  O'  me  life,  I  shall  not  be 
contenttill  he  number  me  among  his  friends. 
But  though  I  am  exceeding  loth  to  leave 
such  delectable  society,  I  must  fain  hie  me 
hence." 

He  had  scarce  uttered  these  words  when 
he  felt  a  nudge  at  his  elbow,  and,  looking 
round,  his  eyes  evidently  met  a  fu  miliar 
face,  for,  with  a  cheerful  countenance,  he 
called  out,  "Ha!  Tarlcton,  what  news?" 
The  person  he  had  so  addressed,  had  a  merry 
eye  and  a- ruddy  countenance  ;  and  in  figure 
stood  rather  under  the  middle  size — the 
which  wa-s  neatly  garmented  in  a  suit  of 
Lincoln  green.  This  was  no  other  than 
Tarleton  the  player,  who  was  in  such  es- 
teem of  the  Queen  for  his  many  witty  jests, 
that  it  was  thought  of  some  he  had  as  nmch 
influence  with  her  as  any  man  living.  Be- 
ing so  great  a  favorite,  he  was  allowed  to  do 
much  as  he  pleased  ;  and  if  his  wit  smacked 
of  some  sharpness,  few  were  so  iniwise  as 
outwardly  to  take  offence  at  it.  Then  he 
had  with  him  so  odd  a  way  of  saying  his 
drolleries,  that  he  forced  many  to  hiugh  who 
liked  not  being  trifled  with. 

"  News,  quotha  !"'  replied  the  jester,  after 
his  comicalest  manner  ;  "  ay,  great  news,  I 
warrant.  An  honest  intelligencer  of  my  ac- 
quaintance told  me,  my  Lord  of  Leicester 
was  about  going  on  an  embassy  to  i'rester 
John,  with  a  suit  of  motley  for  his  wear, 
and  a  case  of  toothpicks  to  hide  in  his 
beard." 

"Marrj'j  that  is  news  indeed,"  answered 
Leicester,  somewhat  seriously  ;  "  and  per- 
adventure  it  came  of  the  same  Jionest  intelli- 
gencer who  assured  me  tiiat  one  Tarleton. 
a  j)layer,  stood  in  groat  likelihood  of  being 
committed  to  Bridewell  for  allowing  of  his 
wit  to  run  foul  of  his  discretion." 

"  Nay,  o'  my  life,  that  is  no  news  !"  e.x- 
claimcd  the  undainited  jester,  "  I  havt'  heard 
it  this  ten  year;  and  the  last  time  it  was 
said  in  my  hearing,  there  was  added  to  it 
that  my  Lord  of  l^eicester  might  have  Uiken 
oft'cnce  at  tlu?  merry  ])layer,  only  the  gener- 
ousness  of  his  nature  put  him  above  such 
ungraciousnesa. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


117 


"  I  tell  thee  what,  Master  Tarleton,"  said 
the  Earl,  taking  the  other's  humor  very  pleas- 
antly, "  there  seemeth  to  be  what  learned 
mediciners  call  sympathy,  in  the  effects  of 
thy  wit — for  the  weapon  that  makes  the 
wound  can  as  readily  perform  the  cure." 

"  O'  my  life,  yes,  an'  it  please  you,  my 
lord,"  replied  the  jester,  making  of  a  mock 
doleful  face  exceeding  ludicrous.  "  But  my 
curing  hath  in  it  more  of  the  cook  than  the 
chirurgeon — for  it  seemeth  to  be  ever  a  get- 
ting me  into  a  famous  pickle."  Thereupon 
there  was  a  manifest  sign  of  laughing  in 
every  face  that  stood  within  ear-sliot. 

"  Peradventure  that  accounteth  for  the 
attic  saltness  of  thy  jests,"  observed  Sir 
Piiilip  Sydney. 

'•  Ay,  and  if  he  selleth  his  wit  he  must 
needs  be  a  salt-cellar,"  added  Lord  Buck- 
liurst. 

"  Troth,  then,  let  those  who  are  below  the 
salt  look  to  their  manners,"  said  Master 
Tarleton.  '•  But  touching  this  conceit  of 
the  salt,  if  it  is  so,  I  shall  be  forced  to  keep 
me  a  respectful  distance,  else  will  every 
lewd  fellow  be  taking  a  pinch  of  me  with  I 
which  to  savor  his  porridge." 

"  Then  will  he  have  more  wit  in  his  por-  I 
ridge  than  ever  he  had  in  his  head,"  said 
Leicester,  good  humoredly.  "  Take  such 
pinches  as  lovingly  as  thou  canst.  Master 
Jester,  for  methinks  'tis  this  very  saltness 
which  keepeth  thy  wit  so  long  good." 

"  I  promise  you,"  replied  Master  Tarle- 
ton. "  But  peradventure  too  much  of  that 
savor  is  like  to  get  me  the  reputation  of  a 
dry  wit." 

"  Nay,  before  thou  canst  bo  properly  dried, 
thou  must  stand  a  good  hanging,"  re- 
joined the  Earl,  with  a  laugh  in  which  all 
joined. 

"  O'  my  life,  I  would  as  soon  be  put  to  the 
rack  at  once,"  said  the  Jester,  '•  and,  in  truth, 
I  protest  against  being  used  so  piggishly." 
"  Truly,  thou  art  hard  to  please  !"  rejoined 
the  Earl,  and  then  graciously  taking  his 
farewell  of  the  Countess  and  lier  party,  lie 
sauntered  along  on  his  way  to  the  Queen's 
chamber.  The  courtiers  thronged  to  pay 
their  respects,  and  commanders,  prelates, 
judges,  and  other  dignitaries,  seemed  all 
alike  anxious  to  gain  his  attention.  Some 
were  petitioners  for  his  inliiience,  others 
came  to  thank  him  for  some  favor  con- 
ferred, and  to  all  he  was  alike  courteous  ; — 
listening  patiently  and  answering  gracious- 
ly ;  and  as  he  went,  took  with  liim  the  good 
wishes  of  those  he  left  behind.  Spying  the 
beautiful  Lady  Rich,  encircled  by  her  usual 
throng  of  admirers,  he  quickly  made  his  way 
to  her  side,  and  soon  proved  himself  the  most ' 


accomplished  gallant  of  them  all.  The 
compliments  of  others  were  insipid,  in  com- 
parison with  such  as  he  offered,  and  the 
lovely  object  of  them  appeared  to  appreciate 
the  distinction,  for  he  received  her  most  win- 
ning smiles. 

"  Many  take  me  to  be  of  some  wealth," 
observed  he  to  her,  in  that  resistless  sweet 
passion  he  was  so  famed  for ;  "  but  when  I 
j  make  comparisons,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
I  myself  in  a  very  monstrous  poverty.  It  is 
!  long  since  I  have  beheld  the  poorness  of  my 
!  state,  and  envied  some  their  greater  fortune  ; 
yet  I  can  say,  in  all  honesty,  were  I  Rich 
I  now,  I  should  be  rich  indeed." 

"  Truly,  I  knov/  not  who  should  thank 
you  most  for  that  pretty  speech  of  yours,  my 
lord  or  myself,"  replied  the  beautiful  crea- 
ture, with  one  of  her  exquisitest  looks. 

"  I  protest  'tis  a  very  delicate  choice  con- 
ceit," said  Sir  Christopher  Hatton,  with  his 
customary  elegance  of  manner,  as  he  raised 
a  gold  pouncet  box  to  his  nose  ;  "  infinitely 
worthy  of  my  Lord  of  Leicester,  his  extreme 
sufficiency  of  wit ;  and  absolutely  corre- 
sponding with  my  Lady  Rich,  her  rare  pro- 
digalness  of  merit."  Whilst  tHe  young  gal- 
lants around  were  endeavoring  to  impress 
this  fine  sentence  on  their  memories,  Tarle- 
ton the  jester  approached,  and  spying  of  Sir 
Christopher  Hatton,  he  suddenly  turned 
round  and  advanced  backwards  towards  him, 
with  every  sign  of  a  most  serious  courtesy, 
making  a  profusion  of  becks  to  a  half  blind  , 
old  courtier  in  the  distance,  whereof  the  con-" 
sequence  was  he  presently  stumbled  against 
Sir  Christopher, and  trod  on  his  toes.  iNovv  if 
anything  would  ruthe  a  man's  temper,  me- 
thinks it  should  be  when  he  is  essaying  to 
make  himself  excessively  agreeable  to  the 
loveliest  woman  of  her  age,  one  should  drive 
against  him  awkwardly,  and  tread  with  some 
heaviness  on  his  feet.  All  expected  Sir 
Christopher  would  have  been  famously  ruf- 
fled ;  but  the  accomplished  courtier  smiled 
upon  the  Queen's  jester, — as  Tarleton  turned 
round  with  a  grave  indifferent  face,  on  the 
instant  he  had  done  v/hat  there  is  but  small 
doubt  he  intended — and  with  a  most  winning 
gTaciousness  apologised  for  ha.ving  been  in 
his  way. 

"  Nay,  I  hope  I  have  not  hurt  you,  sweet 
Sir  Christopher !"  exclaimed  the  merry  pla}^- 
or ;  '•  I  was  but  of  paying  a  proper  courtesy 
to  my  Lord  Bumble,  and  could  not  guess 
your  worship  was  so  nigh." 

"  T  return  you  a  bountiful  load  of  thank- 
fulness for  the  wonderful  friendliness  of 
your  inquiries,  worthy  Master  Tarleton,"  re- 
plied the  text-book  of  compliment ;  I  will 
entomb  such  preciousness  in  my  heart.    Let 


118 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


your  excess  of  goodneps  be  gratified  in  the 
conviction  that  I  am  in  no  way  liurt." 

"  O'  my  hfe,  I  did  think  1  trod  on  your 
toes  somewhat  heavily,"  said  the  jester,  with 
extreme  seriousnes?. 

"  Toes,  wortliy  Master  Tarleton,"  added 
the  mirror  of  courtesy  with  one  of  his  bland- 
est smiles,  "  belong  only  to  vuljiar  persons. 
A  gentleman  hath  no  such  pedal  ajipurte- 
nances.  It  may  be  said  of  such  a  one  timt 
he  hath  a  handsome  foot,"  continued  he, 
looking  at,  and  moving  one  of  his  feet  into 
the  graccfullest  positions ;  "  but  to  say  he 
hath  feet,  is  no  sort  of  phrase  for  the  politer 
sort ;  and  toes  are  altogetiicr  banished  from 
courtly  language." 

"  Nay,  if  you  are  for  depriving  me  of  my 
toes,  I  must  e'en  take  to  my  heels,"  an- 
swered the  other,  and  thereupon  made  off 
from  the  circle  v.-ith  all  speed. 

In  the  meantime  the  Earl  of  Leicester 
had  whispered  a  quick  succession  of  the 
delicatest  flatteries  into  the  ear  of  the  smil- 
ing beauty  he  was  addressing,  which  she 
seemed  to  receive,  more  as  a  iiomage  long 
usage  had  accustomed  her  to,  than  from  any 
particular  excess  of  vanity  in  her  nature. 
Thence  he  went  to  other  lovely  dames, 
where  it  was  evident  lie  was  no  less  wel- 
come ;  and  finally  departed  to  the  Queen's 
chamber,  beyond  all  contradiction  the  most 
admired,  the  most  courted,  and  the  most 
honored  of  all  the  gallant  company  assem- 
bled in  that  goodly  ciiamber. 

It  was  evening  of  the  same  day,  when  in 
a  thick  grove,  at  a  bow-shot  from  the  palace, 
a  gallant,  in  a  largo  horseman's  cloak  and  a 
broad  slouched  hat,  which  completely  con- 
cealed him  from  observation,  was  seen  walk- 
ing from  tree  to  tree,  backwards  and  for- 
wards ;  sometimes  whistling,  sometimes 
humming  a  tune,  but  continually  looking  in 
one  particular  direction,  as  if  he  w^as  in  ex- 
pectation of  some  person  coming  that  way. 
Anon,  he  would  grow  impatient,  and  utter 
something  that  smacked  of  an  oath;  then 
he  would  wrap  his  cloak  closer  round  him, 
lean  against  a  tree,  and  amuse  himself 
awhile  by  digging  of  his  heels  into  the  soil. 
In  these  pursuits  lie  had  been  engaged  for 
some  length  of  time,  when  he  became  aware 
of  the  approach  of  some  person,  disguised 
after  a  like  fashion  as  himself.  It  was  evi- 
dent, these  were  the  same  two  |)ersons  that 
had  stood  togc^thcr  under  the  shadow  upon 
the  terr.ice  of  Kenilworth  Castle.  They 
exhibited  a  similar  caution,  and  they  behaved 
with  a  like  myst(»ry. 

"  What  news  ?"  inquired  the  new  comer, 
in  a  low  voice ;  "  hast  secured  the  prize  .' 


I  Hast  not  let  her  slip  through  thy  fingers  a 
second  time  ?" 
"  Never  was  prize  so  secure,  my  lord," 

I  answered  the  other. 

I     "  Good  !     Exceeding  good  !"    exclaimed 

I  the  noble,  as  if  with  a  wonderful  excess  of 

'  gratification. 

I  '•  The  former  plot  failed  not  from  any  lack 
of  cimning  in  the  planning,"  added  his  com- 
panion ;  ''  I  was  baulked  of  my  success,  just 
when  I  had  made  secure  of  it — a  murrain 
on  the  pitifiil  fools  who  were  so  meddle- 
some !  But,  in  this  instance,  fortune  hath 
been  more  kind ;  and,  though  not  without 
exceeding  painstaking,  I  have  been  free  from 
all  possibility  of  any  such  pestilent  inter- 
ference." 

"  Then  niake  sure,  fortune  shall  be 
thy  friend  from  this  time  forward,"  replied 
the  one  addressed  as  my  lord.  "  But  art 
su  re  none  know  into  whose  hands  she  hath 
fallen !" 

•^  They  could  not  have  the  slightest  guess 
of  it,  I  have  managed  matters  so  well,"  an- 
swered the  other.  "None  saw  her  taken, 
none  know  where  she  is  gone  ;  and  I  have 
given  her  in  charge  to  one,  who  is  too  per- 
fect in  lier  lesson,  to  allow  of  her  prisoner's 
having  knowledge  of  at  whose  suit  she  hath 
been  arrested." 

'■  I  approve  thy  discretion  infinitely,"  ob- 
served the  nobleman  ;  "  I  would  not  be  known 
in  the  business,  on  any  account, either  to  her 
or  any  other.  But  how  doth  she  look,  and 
hov,'  takes  she  her  sudden  I'emovaJ  from  her 
friends  ?" 

"  'Tis  beyond  all  art  of  mine  to  express 
her  looks,  my  lord,"  replied  iiis  associate ; 
"  nought  but  your  own  eyes  can  do  her  ex- 
quisite perfections  justice.  Beautiful  as  she 
was,  she  hath  made  such  progress  in  come- 
liness, that  her  present  appearance  putteth 
clean  out  of  memory  the  graces  she  was 
then  possessed  of" 

"  O'  my  life,  then  she  must  be  of  a  most 
rare  creature,"  exclaimed  the  other  delight- 
edly. 

'•  Truly,  she  is,  my  lord,  and  were  I  in 
any  way  richer  than  I  am,  I  would  wager  a 
dozen  marks  j'ou  will  readily  acknowledge 
on  beholding  Iutc,  there  lives  not  her  peer 
in  this  world." 

"Well,  here  is  something  for  thy  dili- 
gence,'" .Slid  his  companion,  giving  him  a 
well  filled  purse,  which  he  took  very  readily. 
'*  But  "tis  (mly  a  token  of  what  shall  follow, 
find  I  the  original  to  come  up  to  thy  lim- 
ning." 

'•  Would  I  were  as  sure  of  all  other 
things,"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  But  I  pray 
you  take  good  speed  in  your  coming,  for  siio 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


119 


hath  been  made  so  curious  about  you,  that 
if  you  come  not  straight,  I  know  not  what 
her  impatience  may  lead  lier  to." 

"  Be  sure  the  first  moment  I  can  without 
suspicion  absent  myseU'  IVom  court,  I  will 
fly  like  a  hawk,"  replied  the  noble.  "But 
in  the  meanwhile  let  her  lack  nothing  by 
way  of  amusement  to  make  her  content  with 
her  condition.  The  players  may  be  had  to 
entertain  her,  or  any  otlier  pastime  she  is 
likely  to  take  pleasure  in.  Spare  neither 
expense  nor  trouble.  Have  ever  ready  such 
variety  of  enjoyments  tliat  she  can  get  tired 
of  none ;  and  so  possess  no  time  to  reflect 
on  any  other  matter,  save  the  bountifulness 
of  the  provider." 

"  It  shall  be  done,  my  lord,  without  de- 
lay." 

"  And  mark  me,"  continued  his  com- 
panion. 

"  Ay,  my  lord,"  answered  the  other. 

"  Let  Mistress  Crupper  take  proper  heed 
that  this  sweet  angel  of  mine  firmly  be- 
Ueveth  herself  to  be  amongst  persons  of 
worship.  Let  her  manners  be  in  accor- 
dance with  her  assumed  station,  at  tiie 
same  time  that  in  every  point  she  behaveth 
with  the  most  delicate  respect  to  her  lair 
prisoner." 

"  I  bave  already  so  ordered  it,"  replied  his 
associate ;  "  and  Mull  knoweth  her  own  in- 
terests too  well  to  mar  them  by  any  misbe- 
having. I  do  assure  you,  my  lord,  she  play- 
eth  her  part  in  the  choicest  fashion — never 
a  lady  in  the  land  could  do  it  better." 

'•  Provided  that  be  the  case,  she  shall 
have  a  suitable  reward,"  said  the  nobleman. 
"  But  I  must  be  gone.  Haste  back,  and 
keep  her  in  continual  impatience  of  my  com- 
ing. But  above  all  things  be  cautious  my 
name  bo  not  droi)ped  on  any  consideration, 
nor  ought  done  which  might  in  any  manner 
point  to  me  as  holding  the  slightest  siiare  in 
such  proceedings. 

"  Rely  on  it,  my  lord,"  answered  his  com- 
panion, and  so  saying  both  departed  their 
several  ways,  the  one  chuckling  at  the 
weight  of  the  purse,  which  had  rewarded 
his  infamous  proceedings,  and  the  other 
cong-ratulating  himself  on  the  apparent  suc- 
cess of  his  villainous  agent. 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

I  have  been  readie  at  you  hand 

To  grant  whatever  you  might  crave, 
I  have  both  waged  bfc  and  laud 

Your  love  and  good  will  for  to  have. 
I  bought  thee  kcrchers  to  thy  head 

That  were  wrought  fine  and  gallantly, 
I  kept  thee  booth  at  boord  and  bed, 

Which  cost  my  purse  well  favoredly. 
I  bought  thee  peticotes  of  the  best, 

The  cloth  as  fine  as  might  be  ; 
I  gave  thee  jewels  for  thy  chest, 

And  all  this  cost  I  spent  on  thee. 

Ballad  of  Lady  Greensleeves. 

Thou  art  a  shameless  villain  ! 
A  thing  out  of  the  overcharge  of  nature ; 
Sent  Uke  a  thick  clouiL  to  disperse  a  plague 
Upon  weak  catching  woman  I    Such  a  tyrant 
That  for  his  lust  would  sell  away  his  subjects, 
Ay,  all  his  heaven  hereafter. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Mabel  was  left  in  as  bad  hands  as  it 
could  be  possible  for  her  to  fall  into.  It  is 
a  questi<ni  whether  so  vile  a  pair  could  else- 
where have  been  met  with — a  matter  of 
huge  congratulation  to  all  virtuous  minds. 
These  two  were  thoroughly  heartless,  be- 
cause tlioroughly  selfish — lost  to  all  sense 
of  shame  from  being  deaf  to  every  murmur 
of  conscience — careless  of  report,  knowing 
they  had  no  character  to  lose,  and  wishing 
only  to  live,  out  of  extreme  disinclination  to 
die.  They  had  been  in  companionship  with 
each  other  lor  years,  believing  such  villainy 
as  they  possessed  would  only  be  tolerated  by 
those  who  were  most  familiar  with  it ;  but 
their  bad  j)assions  were  ever  breaking  forth, 
and  it  appeared  as  if  they  were  allowed  to 
live,  the  better  to  remind  each  other  of  the 
monstrous  baseness  of  their  behavior. 

All  that  such  wretches  could  do,  aided  by 
the  most  consummate  hypocrisy,  and  with 
evcrv  help  unbounded  wealth  could  procure, 
was  essayed  to  render  the  pure  mind  of  the 
poor  foundling  accessible  to  the  villainy  that 
liad  been  devised  against  her.  Turn  where 
she  would  her  eyes  met  images  of  voluptu- 
ousness—  and  at  all  times  her  ears  were 
invaded  witli  meanings  of  o;)position  to  all 
honorable  notions  ;  but  the  extreme  craft  of 
this,  overthrew  itself.  The  mind  of  the  gen- 
tle Mabel  was  so  essentially  pure,  that  al- 
though it  would  admit  readily  every  image 
of  beauty,  such  characters  came  there  com- 
pletely divested  of  ought  of  an  objectionable 
shape,  and  her  nature  was  so  perfectly  in- 
nocent, that  indelicacy  of  any  sort  was  to 
her  a  foreign  language,  which  she  heard  but 
could  not  understand.     Whereof  the  conse- 


ii> 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


quence  was  she  remained  despite  of  all  this 
great  cxponditiire  of  subtlety,  as  chaste  in 
heart  as  the  day  she  first  entered  those  pol- 
luted walls. 

If  anything  could  lead  a  woman  from  her 
own  integrity,  the  incense  which  was  con- 
tinually being  oftored  to  her  vanity,  in  artful 
praises  of  her  person,  and  in  the  constantly 
varying  costliness  of  its  decorations,  might 
have  snlHccd  ;  but  the  vanity  of  the  poor 
foundling  seemed  so  remotely  seated,  that 
this  precious  artillery  never  touched  it. — 
She  took  the  ilattery  as  said  out  of  good- 
ness ;  and  wore  the  apparel  as  sent  out  of 
kindness. 

Many  days  had  passed  and  Mabel  still 
remained  unconscious  of  her  danger,  and 
in  less  anxiousness  concerning  of  the  old 
knight  and  the  good  dame,  than  she  was  at 
first,  because  her  assumed  friend,  the  fictiti- 
ous Lady  Comfit,  had  assured  her  she  had 
informed  them  of  her  safety  and  comfort. 
Her  only  desire  was  that  the  youthful  sleep- 
er, who  had  got  himself  so  roughly  used  for 
her  sake,  miglit  not  have  been  mucii  hurt, 
and  that  she  should  be  allowed  some  early 
opportunity  of  thanking  him  for  his  extreme 
readiness  to  help  her  in  her  need.  She  was 
rarely  left  alone,  and  scarce  a  moment  was 
allowed  her  for  reflection :  and  the  conver- 
sation of  her  crafty  companion  kept  her  in 
a  constant  state  of  marvel,  admiration,  and 
curiousness  concerning  of  the  princely  gen- 
tleman who  had,  as  she  thought,  taken  such 
strange  means  to  show  his  love  for  her. 
One  da\-,  as  it  were  by  accident,  she  had 
been  left  by  herself,  and  naturally  fell  to 
musing  on  the  mystery  of  those  transactions 
in  which  she  had  been  made  so  prominent  a 
feature.  She  sat  clothed  in  all  the  splendor 
of  Venice  and  Milan — and  it  might  be  truly 
said  her  beauty  more  became  her  tiring  than 
her  tiring  improved  her  beauty — her  arm 
rested  on  the  side  of  the  richly  carved  chair, 
with  the  full  sleeve  falling  back  disclosing 
its  perfect  whiteness  and  symmetry,  clasped 
by  a  bracelet  of  purest  gold  and  jewels,  and 
her  fair  face  was  supported  by  her  hand,  of 
which  the  delicate  fingers  were  half  lost  in 
tlie  meshes  of  her  glossy  hair.  Her  radiant 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  fresh  rushes  at 
her  feet,  but  their  long  silken  lashes  gave 
BO  soft  an  expression  to  tlie  deep  sweet 
thouglitfulness  of  her  exquisite  countenance, 
that  It  is  doubtful  their  full  gaze  could  have 
appeared  more  admirable. 

Thus  slie  thought  over  the  recent  events, 
bewildi^red  with  their  strangeness,  and  per- 
plexed as  to  their  purport,  till  she  was  sud- 
denly startled  from  her  reverie. 

"  Heavens  !  how  exquisitely  beautiful !" 


exclaimed  a  deep-toned  voice;  and,  looking  up 
to  her  exceeding  astonishment,  she  observ- 
ed a  tall  person,  enveloped  in  a  huge  cloak, 
and  his  head  covered  with  a  broad  beaver 
hat,  consequently  she  could  see  of  him  noth- 
ing but  his  face,  which  seemed  nobly  fea- 
tured, and  the  eyes  lustrous  with  a  very 
passionate  adoration.  She  had  scarce  had 
a  moment  for  thinking  who  this  stranger 
could  be,  and  what  he  wanted,  when  the 
cloak  and  hat  fell  at  his  feet,  and  she  beheld 
a  stately  figure,  clad  in  such  magnificence 
as  she  had  had  no  imagination  of.  The  de- 
licatest  white  silk,  daintily  embroidered  with 
gold,  formed  his  hose ;  and  his  doublet  was  of 
a  light  pink,  fancifully  ornamented  with  the 
choicest  pearls,  having  the  sleeves  quaintly 
trimmed  and  slasiied  with  amber  satin,  like 
unto  the  round  full  part  of  his  trunks.  His 
ribbon  garters  and  shoe  roses  were  of  a  cor- 
responding costliness  ;  and  as  some  sign  of 
his  nobility,  he  wore  the  order  of  the  garter 
round  his  leg,  and  a  St.  George  gold  chain, 
of  the  costliest  character,  pendant  from  his 
neck. 

It  might  be  imagined  that  before  such  ex- 
cessive splendor  the  poor  foundling  would 
have  been  somewhat  abashed,  and  that  her 
gentle  nature  would  have  sunk  before  the 
ardor  of  his  gaze  ;  but  this  was  far  from  the 
case.  The  look,  the  manner,  the  appear- 
ance of  the  stranger,  convinced  her  that  he 
was  no  other  than  her  princely  lover,  of 
whom  she  had  heard  so  much ;  and  the  only  !' 
sign  she  gave  of  his  presence  was  rising 
from  her  seat  the  moment  his  nobility  stood 
confessed.  No  royal  queen  could  ever  have 
received  the  homage  of  her  courtiers  with  a 
truer  majesty,  than  did  the  gentle  JNIabel 
stand  before  the  enamored  glances  of  this 
magnificent  noble. 

"  Nay,  I  beseech  thee,  do  not  stir !"'  mur- 
mured he  in  a  most  passionate  gallant  man- 
ner, as  he  took  her  hand,  and  pressed  it 
tenderly  in  his  own.  "  I  regret  having  dis- 
turbed such  a  miracle  of  loveliness,  and  yet 
I  could  not,  had  1  strove  ever  so,  have  re- 
frained from  expressing  in  some  measure 
the  intenscMiess  of  my  ailmiratioii.  Much  as 
1  had  heard  of  thy  marvellous  beauty,  and 
deeply  as  I  had  been  impressed  with  the 
glimpse  I  had  of  it  in  the  garden  of  Kenil- 
worth,  I  was  totally  un])ri'pared  for  such 
ravishing  perfections  as  I  beheld  when,  un- 
noticed, I  softly  entered  this  chamber.  He 
who  held  the  apple  when  the  three  god- 
desses disclosed  their  rival  graces  to  his  ad- 
miring eye,  could  have  seen,  in  all  their 
moving  lovi'liness,  nougiit  half  so  worthy  of 
pre-eminence  as  then  met  my  wondering 
and  most  enamored  gaze." 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


131 


"  My  lord,  for  such  I  believe  you  are  styl- 
ed," replied  Mabel,  with  a  simple  courtesy 
tliat  became  her  better  than  all  art  of  com- 
pliment ;  "  you  are  pleased  to  say  this,  as 
you  have  been  pleased  to  show  me  other 
signs  of  a  like  civilness  in  you ;  and  for 
these,  believe  me,  I  am  as  truly  grateful  as 
ever  heart  was." 

'•  O'  my  life,  it  delighteth  me  infinitely  to 
liear  thee  express  thyself  so  well  disposed 
towards  me,"  answered  her  companion  rap- 
turously kissing  of  her  fair  hand.  "  But 
what  1  have  done  is  nought  to  what  the 
greatness  of  my  love  shall  lead  me  to.  But 
prithee  tell  me  tlie  happy  subject  of  thy  deep 
study." 

"  Indeed  it  was  no  other  than  yourself,  my 
lord,"  answered  the  poor  foundling  very 
readily. 

"  How  proud  am  I  of  having  so  rare  a 
student!"  exclaimed  the  other,  looking  fondly 
in  her  face,  and  pressing  her  hands  with  a 
similar  atiectionateness.  "  How  dost  like 
the  volume  ?  wilt  get  it  by  heart  ?" 

"  In  my  then  thinking,  I  was  seeking  the 
cause  for  my  having  been  put  by  you  in  tliis 
place,"  answered  Mabel. 

"  The  cause,  my  sweet  life  !"  cried  the 
gallant,  as  if  in  some  e.xtreme  astonishment; 
"  why,  what  else  cause  can  there  be  than 
thy  most  exquisite  self?  Look  on  those 
lustrous  eyes,  observe  that  delicate  cheek, 
regard  that  eloquent  and  delicious  mouth,  or 
take  the  perfectness  of  those  matchless  fea- 
tures and  peerless  shape  combined,  and  note 
if  they  contain  not  such  proJigal  cause  of 
love  as  might  warrant  any  such  behivior  in 
a  lover,  as  that  I  have  been  forced  to  take 
advantage  of." 

"  Methinks,  my  lord,  love  might  be  better 
shown,"  observed  the  gentle  foundling. 

"  In  some  cases,  doubtless,"  replied  her 
companion  ;  "  but  not  where  the  lover  is  so 
circumstanced  as  am  I.  I  have  essayed  in 
all  manner  of  things  thou  should.st  meet 
such  respect  as  true  love  delighteth  to  show. 
Thy  tiring  is  of  the  noblest,  thy  lodging  the 
most  sumptuous  that  could  be  had,  and  thy 
fare  the  delicatest  that  wealth  and  skill  could 
unite  in  producing.  Thou  hast  been  waited 
on  as  became  the  guest  of  a  prince  ;  and  so 
gallantly  entertained  as  might  be  shown  to 
an  enthroned  queen !" 

"  Truly  I  have,  and  I  thank  you  right 
heartily,  my  lord — yet " 

"  Dost  lack  anything  ?  Hast  any  desire  ? 
Hast  aught  proper  been  forgotten  ?"  con- 
tinued the  noble,  with  increasing  earnest- 
ness. 

"  Indeed  no,  I  have  store  of  things  of 
every  sort, — 'but " 


"  Dost  not  like  the  dwelling  ?  thou  shalt 
be  removed  to  a  palace,"  added  her  com- 
panion without  allowing  her  to  finish  her 
sentence.  "  Dost  not  approve  of  thy  tiring, 
all  Italy  shall  be  searched  for  costlier  stuffs  ? 
Hast  fault  to  find  with  thy  attendants,  thou 
shalt  have  such  honorable  persons  as  thou 
cannot  help  approving  of?  Or  is  anything 
amiss  with  thy  fare,  the  skilfullest  cooks, 
and  the  daintiest  cates  shall  be  fetched  from 
all  parts  of  Christendom,  to  give  thee  better 
entertainment  ?" 

"  Truly  there  is  no  need,"  she  replied ; 
"  methinks  I  should  be  wondrous  discontent 
seemed  I  not  satisfied  with  the  bountiful 
great  splendor  with  which  I  am  surrounded  ; 
still  there  is  one  thing  I  would  have  you  do, 
which  surely  you  cannot  avoid  doing,  if  you 
have  for  me  the  exceeding  love  you  have 
just  expressed." 

"  Name  it,"  said  her  companion,  in  an 
impassioned  manner.  "  If  it  taketh  up  my 
whole  fortune — which  is  considered  to  be  in 
some  excess — or  requireth  all  my  influence 
— which  is  said  to  be  second  to  none  in  the 
kingdom — whatever  thou  dost  require  shall 
be  done  on  the  instant." 

"  Return  me  to  my  friends,"  answered 
Mabel. 

'•  What !"  exclaimed  the  gallant,  evidently 
having  expected  from  her  something  very 
different,  "  wouldst  have  me,  ere  I  have 
scarce  had  an  hour's  acquaintance  with  so 
inestimable  a  treasure,  to  send  it  away  where 
perchance  I  may  never  see  it  again  ?" 

"  I  doubt  not  you  could  see  me  at  all  pro- 
per times,  with  worthy  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's 
permission,"  said  the  poor  foundling. 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear  life,  there  is  no 
possibility  of  such  a  thing',  else  should  I 
have  preferred  doing  so,"  observed  her  com- 
panion, with  a  famous  earnestness.  "  There 
is  such  absolute  reason  for  what  has  been 
done,  as  would  convince  any,  were  I  allow- 
ed to  say  it ;  but  at  the  present  I  must  needs 
be  dumb  on  the  matter.  Give  me  but  fair 
trial,  and  if,  after  some  time,  thou  shouldst 
desire  again  to  see  thy  friends,  thou  shalt 
go,  and  willingly." 

"  I  thank  you  for  that  assurance,  my  lord," 
replied  Mabel,  somewhat  comforted.  "  In 
very  truth  I  am  most  anxious  to  return  home, 
with  as  little  tarrying  as  possible,  and  you 
will  make  me  more  bound  to  you,  by  help- 
ing me  in  my  wish,  than  could  you  by  de- 
taining me,  though  you  furnished  my  stay 
with  the  honorablest  entertainment  in  your 
power." 

"  I  beseech  thee,  my  fair  queen,  move  me 
not  to  it  at  this  present,"  continued  her 
noble  gallant,  very  passionately.     "  Thou 


123 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


knowest  not  what  great  travail  hath  been ! 
mine  for  thy  sweet  .-ake,  since  I  first  h;id 
glimpse  of  thy  enchanting  graces.  Allow 
me  some  solace  after  my  so  long  trouble ; 
believe  me  night  or  day  hath  been  one  con- 
tinual darkness  with  mo,  in  which  my  hopes 
would  appear  like  stars,  in  bright  assurance 
the  sunrise  of  my  happiness  was  nigh  at 
hand ;  and  yet  it  came  not,  till  my  heart 
M'as  nigh  upon  being  weary  with  so  much 
longing.  Nought  but  the  remembrance  of 
those  dazzling  beauties,  as  they  came  upon 
me,  like  a  sudden  flash  of  heaven  to  a  poor 
heathen,  kept  me  in  countenance  with  my- 
self; for  that  remembrance  brought  with  it 
such  good  warrant  of  gentle  treatment,  of 
excellent  kind  sympathy,  and  of  generous 
sweet  affection,  as  a  nature  well  disposed  to 
reward  the  infinite  sufferings  of  unbounded 
love,  is  ever  possessed  of.  Let  it  not  be  I 
have  rested  on  a  broken  reed." 

"  I  should  be  loath  to  deal  harshly  with 
you,  my  lord,"  replied  the  simple  foundling; 
"  nor  am  I  in  any  way  so  given  towards 
any  one.  Yet  I  see  not  I  could  give  you 
any  relief  stayed  I  here  ever  so." 

"  Be  assured,  sweetest,  nothing  is  so 
easy,"  observed  her  companion,  gazing  on 
her  as  enamoredly  as  though  he  had  put  his 
whole  heart  and  soul  into  a  glance.  "  Let 
those  entrancing  eyes  discourse  with  mine 
the  true  language  they  were  made  to  ex- 
press, till  volumes  of  loving  meaning  beam 
in  every  look;  twine  those  delicate  arms 
around  me  as  I  would  use  mine  own,  till 
heart  throlj  foiully  against  heart  in  natural 
unison,  and  every  nerve  throughout  our  en- 
amored natures  thrill  with  the  same  soft 
ecstacy — and  bring  me  hither  those  delici- 
ous lips  tliat  make  the  ruby  pale,  and  look 
more  tempting  than  tlie  ripest  ruddiest  cher- 
ry, to  refresh  my  thirsty  soul  with  the  pre- 
cious rapturous,  exquisite  sweet  balm  with 
which  they  are  bedewed." 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  I " 

"  Jieiiold  uic  here  thy  poor  petitioner," 
continued  the  enamored  nobleman,  kneeling 
on  one  knee  at  the  feet  of  the  gentle  Mabel, 
with  sucli  a  look  and  with  such  a  manner 
few  women  coidd  have  resisted.  "  Note  to 
how  mean  a  strait  uiy  greatness  is  reduced — 
see  the  equal  of  princes,  the  very  humblest 
of  slaves.  Dear,  excellent  fair  creature !  My 
whole  being  is  bound  up  in  the  gaining  of 
thy  choice  affections.  Show  me  some  sign — 
a  smile,  a  word,  a  look — my  case  is  not  en- 
tirely desperate  and  I  will  till  the  air  thou 
makost  hilly  with  thy  presence,  with  my  un- 
ceasing love  and  very  earnest  thankful- 
ness." 

Thus  proceeded  this  accomplished  gallant 


with  the  innocent  gentle  Mabel — now  ap- 
pealing to  her  sympathies, — now  endeavor- 
ing to  awaken  her  pride  a  moment  after 
striving  with  equal  earnestness  to  excite  her 
vanity,  and  anon  straining  every  nerve  to 
move  her  ambition  ;  and  thus  he  continued 
with  the  most  passionate  assiduity  for  several 
days,  breathing  into  her  ear  the  most  delicate 
flattery,  and  exhausting  ever)-  source  of  en- 
tertainment likely  to  dazzle  or  captivate  an 
inexperienced  tender  woman.  Save  witli 
her  sympathies  he  scarce  made  any  advance, 
which  made  him  marvel  infinitely,  for  he  was 
the  most  irresistable  lover  that  ever  sought  a 
fair  lady's  affections,  and  had  achieved  more 
triumphs  over  the  sex  than  had  any  half 
dozen  of  his  acquaintance.  There  was  not 
a  turn  of  their  hearts  with  which  he  seemed 
not  familar,  and  he  appeared  to  know  the 
cunningest  baits  to  draw  up  their  desires. 
But  this  exceeding  knowledge  was  derived 
from  the  court  circles,  or  those  who  took 
after  them  in  manner,  where  such  gifts  as  he 
possessed  could  scarce  fail  of  having  a  most 
absolute  influence.  The  mere  tine  ladies, 
or  those  eager  to  be  thought  so,  readily  gave 
way  to  his  many  fascinations,  but  the  poor 
foundling  was  of  a  very  different  sort.  There 
was  in  her  nature  a  marvellous  combination 
of  simplicity  and  pride — the  one  kept  her 
ignorant  of  the  treachery  of  her  companion 
— the  other  received  his  delusive  attentions 
as  though  they  v/ere  her  just  right  and  title. 
Something  of  this  she  had  shown  when  in 
company  with  Sir  Valentine,  when  the 
modesty  of  her  apparel  seemed  out  of  place 
with  the  air  of  graceful  dignity  and  easy 
self-possession  with  which  slie  sliared  in  the 
court-like  converse  of  the  young  knight ; — 
but  now,  clothed  in  all  the  delicate  splendor 
of  the  times,  she  listened  to  the  dangerous 
homage  of  her  princely  gallant,  with  a  man- 
ner so  noble  as  must  have  convinced  any 
spectator  she  took  them  more  as  proper  res- 
pect than  as  a  matter  for  gratitication. 

Her  noble  lover's  ecstacics  availed  him 
nothing — the  fondness  of  his  behavior  and 
discour.se  made  as  little  impression — but  his 
unceasing  efforts  to  afford  her  by  the  most 
lavish  expenditure,  signs  of  the  unlwunded 
estiuiation  in  which  she  was  held  by  him, 
were  accepted  with  gratitude  ;  and  the  seem- 
ing terribleness  of  his  sufferings  when  her 
behavior  i)ut  him  into  a  despairing  mood, 
were  regarded  witii  a  natural  sympathy. 
Here  she  was  in  some  danger,  for  tliere  is 
no  sucli  nigh  relations  to  love  as  gratitude 
and  pity. 

In  the  meanwhile  William  Sliakspeare 
having  at  last  met  with  Sir  Valentine,  in- 
stant proceedings  were  taken  to  endeavor  to 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


123 


trace  out  the  place  to  which  the  gentle  Mabel 
had  been  carried.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
manner  in  which  the  younj,^  knight  was 
moved  at  the  relation  of  his  lair  mistress's 
abduction.  All  the  chivalry  of  liis  nature 
was  up  in  arms  in  a  moment,  and  he  was  for 
chasing  the  villains  to  the  uttermost  corners 
of  the  earth.  With  the  feeUngs  with  which 
he  had  regarded  her  many  moving  graces, 
so  that  she  liad  become  to  iiim  tlie  sovereign 
of  his  heart's  wishes,  he  felt  bound  by  every 
principle  of  knightiiood  to  peril  life  and  limb 
in  her  service,  and  mounting  his  palfrey  he 
rode  in  every  direction  to  find  some  traces  of 
her  flight.  He  was  at  last  so  fortunate  as  to 
meet  with  the  man  elsewhere  spoken  of,  who 
had  seen  her  borne  past  him,  and  had  watched 
her  direction,  whilst  he  could  keep  her  in 
sight ;  and  with  this  intelligence  he  sat  oif  as 
soon  as  he  could  from  his  kinsman's  house, 
;iccompanied  only  by  his  favorite  companion, 
llie  youthful  JShakspeare,  riding  of  a  grey 
gelding,  who  was  quite  as  eager  as  himself 
to  go  on  such  an  errand. 

Tlie  feelings  of  these  two  were  as  difTerent 
as  their  different  natures  could  make  them. 
The  young  knight  in  the  fresh  bloom  of  his 
manhood,  saw  beauty  only  as  it  was  expected 
a  soldier  siiould  see  it — as  something  worthy 
of  being  honored  by  the  honorablest  achieve- 
ments. Tiie  young  student  in  tlie  first  soft 
glow  of  youth,  saw  beauty  only  as  in  such 
cases  it  might  be  seen  of  a  student — as  some- 
thing to  worship  at  a  humble  distance  with 
the  purest  and  noblest  thoughts.  The  one 
believing  it  to  be  his  duty,  would  have  boldly 
proclaimed  the  name  of  Mabel  as  hrst  in  his 
esteem  wherever  lie  went, — tiie  other  feeling 
it  to  be  his  nature,  would  have  thouglit  it  sa- 
crilege to  have  mentioned  her  name  in  idle 
company,  although  his  estimation  of  her  was 
not  a  whit  less  than  was  that  of  his  compa- 
nion. 

They  proceeded  on  in  the  course  directed, 
at  all  reasonable  opportunities  Sir  Valentine 
entertaining  of  his  young  associate  with  a 
very  gallant  discourse  concerning  the  doings 
of  certain  famous  kniglits  in  love  with  no- 
table fair  ladies,  and  ever  and  anon,  season- 
ing it  with  divers  pretty  passages  out  of  Pe- 
trarcha,  his  sonnets  of  love,  to  which  the 
youtliful  poet  would  seriously  incline  his  ear, 
get  explained  to  him  whatever  he  knew  not 
the  meaning  of,  and  observe,  question,  and 
reply  upon  all  he  lieard,  with  such  spright- 
liness  of  wit  and  ingenuity  of  learning,  as 
both  astonished  and  delighted  his  fellow 
traveller. 

They  passed  all  manner  of  pleasant  man- 
sions, with  excellent  parks  of  deer,  and  beheld 
the  country  round  showing  a  thousand  signs 


of  the  decay  of  summer,  yet  still  possessing 
so  much  of  greenness  as  gave  it  a  semely 
aspect.  Occasionally,  they  would  meet  with 
a  brave  company  going  a  hawking,  each  with 
a  favorite  bird  on  the  wrist,  and  riding  on  an 
ambling  palfrey,  accompanied  by  attendants 
carrying  of  other  hawks  together,  perched  in 
a  circle,  all  hooded  in  their  fairest  gesses  and 
Milan  bells,  ready  to  be  cast  oft  at  a  moment's 
notice.  Anon,  they  would  hear  the  loud 
"  Solio  !"  of  some  eager  huntsman,  and  they 
would  rein  in  their  steeds  awhile  to  see  tlio 
goodly  sight  of  tire  hounds  in  full  chase,  and 
the  gallant  assemblage  of  men  and  horses 
speeding  after  them  over  hedge  and  ditch, 
hill  and  hollow,  with  some  a  tumbling  in  this 
place,  others  leaping  in  that,  here  a  steed  gal- 
lopping  without  his  rider,  and  there  a  rider 
running  to  catch  his  steed:  and  a  little  way 
further,  they  would  come  upon  divers  honest 
anglers,  pursuing  of  their  delicate  sport  by 
the  sedgy  margin  of  the  brook,  to  the  manifest 
catching  of  sundry  luce,  greyling,  perch, 
bream,  and  dace,  then  uselessly  flapping  of 
their  tails  in  the  angler's  basket. 

The  partridges  hid  their  heads  among  the 
stubble — the  snipe  lurked  unseen  in  the 
water-courses — tlie  wild-ducks  floated  in 
flocks  over  the  broad  ponds  and  marsliy  lakes, 
and  the  great  heron  lay  in  her  haunt,  amid 
the  thick  reeds  of  the  same  waters.  On  a 
branch  of  a  withered  old  tree  upon  the  banks, ' 
the  gaudy  kingtisher  was  maldng  a  choice 
repast,  and  in  his  hole  deep  in  the  sandy  soil 
beneath,  the  greedy  otter  was  busying  him- 
self with  a  like  occupation.  Great  companies 
of  small  birds  seemed  pursuing  of  each  other 
over  the  open  fields,  and  far  over  head  the 
noisy  rooks  gathered  their  black  bands  to 
ravage  the  distant  country.  As  the  travelers 
skirted  a  wood,  they  observed  the  nimble 
conies  running  into  their  holes,  or  a  stray 
leveret  rushing  hither  and  thither,  without 
knowing  where,  scared  by  the  sound  of  the 
horses  feet.  Presently,  a  young  pigeon  was 
noticed  plying  of  her  wings  with  the  desperate 
eagerness  of  despair,  as  she  left  the  wood  for 
the  open  country  ;  but  a  murderous  hawk  fol- 
lowed in  her  track,  and  as  she  sank  panting 
with  agony  behind  a  tree,  he  swept  down 
upon  her  swifter  than  the  wind,  and  in  the 
same  minute  fixed  his  sharp  talons  in  her 
heart. 

Having  from  many  of  the  laboring  coun- 
try-people continued,  as  they  proceeded,  to 
gain  such  intelligence  as  still  led  them  on, 
they  had  gone  a  famous  distance,  but  full  of 
ardor  to  accomplish  tiieir  adventure,  they 
pushed  forward,  regardless  of  all  else,  save 
the  rescue  of  the  gentle  Mabel.  It  so  hap- 
pened, that  at  last,  to  their  constant   inqui- 


124 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


ries,  nothing  profitable  was  gained.  No  one 
had  seen  any  such  persons  as  were  des- 
cribed to  them.  Finding  this  to  be  the  case, 
they  retraced  their  steps  towards  tlie  place 
where  thoy  obtained  the  latest  infumialion, 
with  the  idea,  that  if  any  house  lay  conve- 
nient, it  was  probable  there  she  had  been 
carried.  They  now  rode  slowly,  and  took 
close  scrutiny  of  the  neighborliood.  After 
so  doing  for  some  time,  they  spied  a  fair 
house  down  in  a  hollow,  almost  hid  up  with 
trees,  and  completely  surrounded  with  a  high 
wall.  Within  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  it  was  a  small  village,  of  some  half-dozen 
houses,  most  distinguishable  of  which  was 
the  open  smithy,  the  little  inn,  and  a  shop 
for  the  sale  of  all  manner  of  things  needed 
in  such  a  place.  It  was  thought  advisable 
to  make  for  this  village  at  once,  as  being  the 
likeliest  spot  to  gain  the  necessary  intelli- 
gence, and  where  they  could  get  refresh- 
ments for  themselves  and  beasts,  whilst  they 
made  their  inquiries. 

As  they  rode  into  the  yard,  William  Shaks- 
peare  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  man,  in  whose 
unpleasing  features  he  immediately  recog- 
nized the  villain  who  had  struck  him  when 
he  seized  his  companion.  The  fellow  saw 
not  vvho  had  observed  him,  for  he  was  busy 
playing  at  bowls  under  a  shed  with  divers 
other  persons.  The  youthful  poet  resolved 
on  saying  nothing  of  this  discovery  till  a 
more  litling  opportunity  presented  itseli', 
therefore  quietly  followed  the  example  of  the 
young  knight,  in  dismounting,  giving  his 
palfrey  in  ciiarge  to  the  landlord,  and  enter- 
ing the  inn.  Upon  sitting  himself  in  a 
chamber  to  which  he  and  Sir  Valentine  were 
shown,  he  observed  a  decent  sort  of  a  man, 
of  a  middle  age,  seated  on  a  settle,  with  a 
book  in  his  hand,  and  a  jug  of  ale  on  the 
table  before  him.  As  William  Shakspeare 
took  himself  to  make  a  hearty  meal  of  what 
was  set  before  him,  he  gave  another  glance 
at  the  person  with  the  book,  and  another 
after  that,  and  he  still  thought,  as  he  had  ima- 
gined when  he  iirst  came  into  the  room,  that 
the  countenance  v.'as  familiar  to  him.  Sir 
Valentine,  hnding  a  stranger  with  them,  was 
pondering  with  himself  whether  he  should 
abstain  from  seeming  curious,  which  might 
perchance  defeat  his  object,  or  attempt  cau- 
tiously to  make  the  necessary  inquiries  of  this 
very  person.  However,  it  so  fell  out,  that 
the  stranger  raised  his  eyes  from  the  book, 
on  which  lie  seemed  as  intent  as  though  he 
were  the  most  scholarly  person  that  had  ever 
lived,  and  thereupon  encountered  the  some- 
what earnest  gaze  of  the  youthful  Shaks- 
peare. 

"  Why,  surely !"  exclaimed  the  stranger, 


in  a  pleased  surprise — "  yes,  it  must  be.  O 
my  life,  'tis  either  Will  Shakspeare  or  his 
ghost.'" 

"  'Tis  myself,  worthy  Master  Burbage, 
replied  the  young  poet,  proceeding  quickly 
to  take  the   proffered  hand  of  the  father  of 
his  friend  and  school-fellow. 

"  Glad  to  see  thee,  by'r  lady  I"  said  the 
other,  giving  his  young  acquaintance  a 
hearty  sliake  of  the  hand. 

"  And  how  do  thy  e.\cellent  parents — and 
■  how  is  Dick,  my  son — and  how  are  all  my 
honest  friends  at  Stratford  ?"  The  youthful 
Shakspeare  quickly  gave  him  the  intelli- 
gence he  required  ;  Sir  Valentine  remaining 
silent,  yet  glad  they  were  known  to  eacn 
other. 

"  But  what  hath  brought  you  here,  worthy 
Master  Burbage  ?"  inquired  the  young  poet 
at  last. 

"  Ey,  what,  indeed !"  replied  the  player, 
somewhat  dolefully.  "  'Sprecious  !  I  would 
I  had  never  come  nigh  the  place.  Metliinks 
I  cannot  help  getting  myself  into  a  famous 
trouble  on  account  of  it,  which  may  spoil 
my  fortune  ever  alter." 

"  Alack,  that  is  woeful  news  I"' observed 
William  Shakspeare.  •'  But,  I  pray  you, 
tell  me  how  that  is  so  like  to  be  ?" 

"  Why,  this  is  it,"  answered  Master  Bur- 
bage :  "I  have  been  sent  down  with  my 
company  to  play  stage  plays  and  interludes 
of  the  entertainment  of  some  ladies  living  in 
a  house  hard  by." 

"  I  pray  you,  tell  me  if  the  fellow  in  green, 
now  playing  at  bowls,  belongeth  to  that 
house  ?"  inquired  the  young  poet,  very 
earnestly. 

"  Out  of  all  doubt,  he  doth,"  replied  the 
player.  "  He  is  the  serving-man  of  my 
Lady  Arabella  Comtit." 

"  The  house  hath  an  ancient  look  witli  it, 
and  lioth  hid  among  trees  somewhat  to  tlie 
left  of  this  .'"  observed  his  youtliful  friend  ; 
and  at  hearing  this.  Sir  Valentine  listened 
with  a  very  singular  curiousness. 

"  Ay,  that  is  the  place,"  said  Master  Bur- 
bage, a  little  impatiently.  '•  Now,  we  have 
been  ordered  to  get  ourselves  perfect  in  a 
new  play  by  the  ne.\t  day  after  to-morrow  at 
noon,  to  play  before  this  noble  lady  and  her 
friends,  at  her  own  house  ;  and  as  we  are 
all  intent  upon  stuiiying  our  parts,  a  certain 
boy  of  our  company  wlio  playeth  principal 
woman,  hath  the  ill  hap  to  be  taken  with  a 
desperato  illness ;  and  we  know  not  what 
to  do  on  account  of  it,  for  we  cannot  play 
without  him  ;  and  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  , 
assist  us  in  any  manner,  he  is  in  so  bud  a 
state." 

William  Shakspeare  niuscd  on  their  in- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE- 


125 


telligence  for  some  minutes,  tlion  asked 
sundry  questions  concerning  the  part  the 
sicli  boy  was  to  have  played,  which  Master 
Burbage  showed  him  by  tiic  booiv  he  had  in 
his  hand  ;  and  afterwards,  both  to  the  sur- 
prise of  Sir  Valentine  and  the  other,  offered, 
on  condition  Master  Burbage  should  pass 
off  himself  and  his  companion  as  of  his  com- 
pany, he  would  himself  diligently  essay  the 
playing  of  the  part  the  sick  boy  ought  to 
have  played.  Crowningmen  catch  at  straws ; 
and  just'so  eagerly  did  Master  Burbage  avail 
himself  of  this  offer — promised  what  was  re- 
quired, and,  moreover,  offered  to  give  the 
volunteer  such  instructions  in  the  playing 
of  the  part  as  might  be  necessary  for  him  to 
know.  Upon  the  first  opportimity,  William 
.Shakspeare  told  Sir  Valentine  his  reasons 
lor  having  done  as  he  had  ;  with  the  which 
the  latter"  was  so  greatly  satisfied,  that  he 
became  a  player  on  the  sudden,  with  as 
much  willingness  as  he  would  have  entered 
a  battle  field. 


CHAPTER  XVni. 

Come,  I'll  be  out  of  this  ague, 
For  to  live  thus  is  not  indeed  to  live  ; 
It  is  a  mockery  and  abuse  of  life  ; 
I  will  not  henceforth  save  myself  by  halves  ; 
Loose  all  or  nothing. 

Webster. 

Paul.  Thou  shall  not  go  in  liberty  to  thy  grave, 

For  one  night  a  sultana  is  my  slave. 
Mustapha.  A  terrible  little  tyranuess. 

Massinger. 

But  though  this  mayden  tendre  were  of  age, 
Yet  in  the  brest  of  hire  virginitee 
There  was  enclosed  sad  and  ripe  corage. 

Chaucer. 

Master  Burbage  vi^as  delighted  at  a  re- 
hearsal at  finding  not  only  how  well  his 
young  friend  became  his  petticoats,  but  how 
truly  and  gracefully  he  enacted  the  different 
scenes  in  which  he  was  to  play.  Certes 
William  Shakspeare  was  not  a  player  for 
the  first  time,  as  witness  his  early  playing 
of  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  and  divers  oth- 
er interludes  with  his  schoolfellows  Green, 
Burbage,  Hemings,  Condell  ;  hut  he  felt 
there  was  a  monstrous  difference  betwixt 
doing  of  such  things  in  the  manner  of  school- 
hoys,  for  their  own  amusement  only,  and  at- 
tempting it  in  the  fashion  of  real  players  for 
the  entertainment  of  a  gallant  company. 
But  by  the  aid  of  Master  Burbage  he  got 
over  much  of  the  difficulty. 

The  play  appeared  cunningly  writ  with 


no  other  end  than  to  lead  to  the  undoing  of 
the  gentle  Mabel.  At  least  so  thought  Sir 
Valentine  and  his  youthful  friend  ;  and  it 
was  agreed  between  them  the  young  knight 
should  play  one  of  the  minor  characters  in 
the  which  there  was  little  to  .say  or  do,  but 
excellent  opportunity  of  Sir  Valentine's  no- 
ting who  were  of  the  company,  and  if  such 
persons  as  they  expected  should  be  among 
them,  it  afforded  a  mean  for  her  recognizing 
him,  and  so  knowing  friends  were  near. 
This  was  done  in  case  she  should  not  know 
again  the  features  of  William  Shakspeare, 
as  he  thought  it  possible  she  might  not. 
There  was  another  incident  in  the  plot,  but 
this  the  young  player  kept  to  himself. 

The  time  arrived,  and  the  players  were 
ready.  Master  Burbage  was  encouraging 
his  youthful  companion  with  great  store  of 
praise,  who,  dressed  in  feminine  apparel, 
was  to  personate  a  young  country  girl.  In 
the  first  scene  a  noble  lover  appears,  ac- 
quainting his  confidant  how  he  had  seen 
such  perfection  in  womanhood,  as  he  must 
sigh  his  heart  away  for,  was  he  not  allowed 
her  sweet  society  to  ease  his  pain,  where- 
upon in  pity  of  his  lord's  dolorous  moan,  the 
other  is  made  to  oft'er  to  carry  her  off  on  the 
instant,  to  the  which,  seeing  no  other  way 
of  having  her,  the  passionate  lover  gives 
his  reluctant  consent.  Then  followed  an 
attempt  to  carry  off  the  damsel,  with  her 
rescue  by  the  interference  of  her  friends. 
Here  the  young  player  came  upon  the  stage, 
which  was  one  end  of  a  large  chamber,  the 
players  coming  in  by  a  door  at  each  side. 
At  the  other  end  he  observed  four  persons 
sitting,  but  to  his  amazement  they  were  all 
masked,  as  persons  of  quality  often  were. 
The  first  near  him  was  a  lady  of  a  most 
graceful  figure,  dressed  in  as  great  magnifi- 
cence as  he  had  seen  Queen  Elizabeth  at 
Kenilworth.  The  next  was  a  gallant,  in 
apparel  equally  gorgeous,  who  occasionally 
turned  from  the  lady  to  speak  to  another 
gallant  less  nobly  clad,  sitting  on  the  other 
side  of  him,  and  beyond  him  was  another 
lady  very  richly  garmented,  but  in  no  com- 
parison with  the  first. 

Whether  the  lady  so  bountifully  attired 
was  the  fair  creature  of  whom  they  were  in 
search  he  had  no  means  of  knowing,  for  she 
gave  no  sign  of  recognition  at  his  appear- 
ance. When  Sir  Valentine  came  on  the 
stage  she  started  somewhat,  and  asked  some 
questions  of  her  companion,  and  appeared 
to  take  greater  interest  in  the  play.  Then 
was  enacted  her  being  carried  off  from  her 
home,  to  the  house  of  a  kinswoman  to  the 
noble  gallant's  confidant.  Here  the  coun- 
try maid  was  seen  clothed  in  the  richest 


126 


THE  YOUTH  OF  GHAKSPEARE. 


stuffs  and  jewels,  and  paid  all  manner  of 
honorable  attention.  At  the  sight  of  Sir 
Valentine,  again  the  youthful  lady  gazed  on 
him  with  more  earnestness  than  she  did  be- 
fore, and  her  interest  in  the  play  evidently 
grew  deeper  and  deeper.  After  this  the 
princely  lover  entered,  and  with  the  fondest 
rhetoric  implored  the  love  of  the  seeming 
Mabel,  till  he  so  moved  her,  as  it  appeared, 
she  was  content  to  promise  him  all  manner 
of  happiness,  to  his  inhnite  contentation. 
To  end  all,  there  was  to  be  a  soliloquy  to  be 
spoken  by  the  lieroine,  in  which  she  was  to 
applaud  herself  to  the  echo  for  her  gener- 
ousness  in  behalf  of  a  gentleman  who  had 
shown  towards  her  such  extreme  honor,  and 
vow  to  be  his  true  love,  and  his  alone  ever 
after,  till  death  should  put  asunder  their 
mutual  loving  hearts. 

This  the  players  considered  the  difficult- 
est  passage  of  the  whole,  to  be  done  with 
proper  ell'ect.  As  yet  their  now  companion 
had  conducted  himself  beyond  their  expec- 
tations ;  but  this  long  soliloquy  was  a  difti- 
cult  part  for  the  ablest ;  and  fears  were  en- 
tertained he  might  lose  himself  in  it,  and  so 
break  down.  To  prevent  this  as  much  as 
possible,  Master  Eurbage  stationed  himself 
at  one  of  tiie  open  doors,  so  as  not  to  be  in 
sight  of  the  audience,  to  prompt  him  in  case 
he  was  at  a  loss.  There  was  the  fictitious 
Mabel,  in  all  the  splendor  of  her  supposed 
greatness,  and  there  stood  the  anxious 
prompter  with  book  in  hand,  hoping  with  all 
his  might  the  play  would  end  as  well  as  it 
had  {)ioceedcd.  The  prompter  gave  the 
cue,  but  to  his  extreme  astonishment  the 
young  player  spoke  words  clean  ditierent. 
The  prompter  in  an  agony  of  dread  that  all 
would  be  marred,  gave  out  the  cue  again 
somewhat  louder,  but  still  the  young  player 
proceeded  with  a  speech  as  opposite  to  that 
he  ought  to  have  said  as  two  ditlerent  things 
could  be.  Horror-struck,  the  poor  player 
cast  down  his  book,  and  began  pulling  of 
his  hair,  kicking  the  ground,  and  muttering 
impn'cations  against  the  author  of  his  ruin, 
as  he  imagined  the  youthful  Shakspeare  to 
ho,  that  all  the  players  came  marvelling  to 
see  what  had  produced  such  strange  effects. 

But  if  Master  Burbnge  was  so  moved, 
not  less  so  was  the  lady  mghest  to  the  stage. 
Her  three  companions  were  engaged  in 
earnest  converse,  without  paying  the  slight- 
est attention  to  what  was  passing  elsewhere. 
The  intentness  of  the  three  to  the  subject 
of  their  converse,  did  not  escape  the  notice 
of  the  young  player;  and  though  he  sus- 
pected the  iair  deity  of  his  dreams  was  the 
lady  who  ]k\.'u[  such  unceasing  attention  to 
the  play,  lie  essayed  to  have  some  certain 


knowledge  of  it  by  a  device  cf  his  own. 
Therefore  instead  of  speaking  the  proper 
soliloquy,  he  spoke  the  following  passage, 
which  he  had  written  to  say  in  its  place,  if 
circumstances  served : — 

"  Now  with  my  heart  let  mc  hold  conference. 
This  lord,  hu  speaks  me  fair,  he  clothes  me  fine, 
He  entertains  me  honorably  and  well  ; 
But  how  know  I  his  purport  in  all  this  ? 
Is  it  in  honesty,  is  it  in  respect  ? 
Doth  it  mean  well  or  ill,  or  good  or  bnd  ? 
His  words  are  cups  that  brim  all  o'er  with  love, 
But  is  there  sign  of  wedding  in  this  cheer  I 
Perchance  the  love  he  pcotlers  comes  to  me 
In  some  polluted  vessel,  that  hath  been 
Lipped  by  dishonored  maids  in  wantonness. 
Or   drained    by   thoughtless    women   in   their 

shame  ? 
These  gaudy  trappings,  are  they  meant  to  be 
The  tire  of  marriage  sent  by  honest  love, 
Or  the  more  tawdry  livery  of  guilt? 
And  all  this  splendor,  all  this  bounteous  state, 
This  worship,  travail,  reverence,  and  respect — 
'Tis  jirodigal,  'tis  admirable, 'tis  rare. 
Most  choice,  most  noble,  delicate,  and  sweat- 
But  doth  it  cover  any  meaner  thing  ? 
A  thing  so  base,  so  vile,  so  infamous, 
It  doth  require  to  be  thus  thickly  gilt 
To  make  the  metal  take  a  sterling  shape  ] 
I'll  think  of  this." 

The  lady  appeared  somewliat  agitated 
during  the  delivery  of  these  passages,  and 
leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  drinking  in 
every  word,  evidently  with  the  most  intense 
interest.  The  young  player  noticing  these 
signs,  and  observing  too  that  her  companions 
were  still  paying  no  heed  to  him,  proceeded 
with  tliese  words : — 

"  Alack,  I  cannot  doubt 
These   words  mean   villainy,  these   garments 

shame. 
This  entertainment  mischiefs  of  the  worst. 
Methinks  the  very  air  I  breathe,  focls  thick 
With  craft  and  malice,  treachery  and  crime  ! 
And  I  am  here  alone — far  from  all  help — 
Close  watched,  well  guarded,  providently  kept. 
But  hush  I  there  needs  great  caution.     Not  a 

word, 
A  sound,  a  gesture,  dare  I  give  to  show 
I  look  suspiciously  upon  these  schemes. 
And  yet  there  might  he  present  even  here 
Friends  who  would  strain  their  hearts  for  my 

escape. 
Showed  1  sonu"  sign  I  would  assay  their  aid. 
At  least  I'll  let  them  see  I  wear  a  face 
That  needs  no  mask — for  1  can  truly  swear 
As  yet  it  holds  no  intercourse  with  shame." 

In  an  instant  the  mask  was  taken  off  the 
lady  so  deeply  interested  in  the  play,  and, 
as  the  youthful  Shakspeare  had  for  some 
minutes  anticij)ated,  he  behelil  the  guileless, 
beautiful  countenance  of  tlie  gentle  Mabel, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE, 


127 


flushed  with  excitement,  and  gazed  upon 
him  with  so  imploring  anxious  a  look,  it  was 
plain  she  had  felt  every  word  he  liad  uttered. 
The  face  was  again  masked,  quite  unob- 
served by  her  companions.  The  young 
player  made  a  sign  of  recognition,  and  con- 
cluded witli  these  lines  : — 

"  These  i'rienJs  I'll  trust,  I  know  they  may  be 

/found 
Out  by  the  gate  that  ends  the  garden  wall. 
There  will  1  seek  tliem  with  what  speed  I  may  ; 
Having  assurance,  by  their  means  to  'scape 
The  living  hell  that  holds  me  round  about ; 
And  back  return  to  innocence  and  peace, 
An  honored  dwelling,  and  a  spodess  name." 

"  Come,  sweetest,  the  play  is  ended," 
whispered  her  noble  gallant.  Mabel  me- 
chanically rose,  and  accompanied  licr  to 
his  own  chamber.  Her  feelings  were  in 
such  a  state  of  tumult  she  dared  not  speak. 
She  repeated  to  herself  the  lines — 

"  1  know  they  may  be  found 
Out  by  the  g.'ite  that  ends  the  garden  wall," 

as  if  she  would  impress  them  so  irrmly  on 
her  memory,  there  could  be  no  chance  of  her 
forgeliing  them:  she  also  remembered  the 
hint  that  had  been  given  her  to  be  cautious, 
but  she  had  been  so  little  accustomed  to  dis- 
guise, that  here  she  somewhat  feared  for 
herself.  The  revulsion  of  feeling  had  been 
so  deep,  so  s'rong,  and  so  sudden  from  a  sense 
of  security  and  gratitude  to  a  sense  of  dis- 
gust and  abhorrence,  that  it  left  her  for 
some  minutes  so  greatly  bc'wildered,  she 
scarce  knew  what  she  was  about.  Present- 
ly, her  lover  and  lierself  unmasked.  The 
signs  of  a  disturbed  nature  so  visible  in  her, 
he  seemed  to  expect  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence of  his  craftily-devised  play,  and  he 
had  not  the  slightest  doubt  it  had  produced 
all  the  effect  he  Irad  desired.  It  was  time 
now,  ho  thought,  to  follow  up  his  advantage 
before  tlie  simple  girl  could  irave  opportunity 
for  reflection,  and  he  made  himself  ready, 
with  the  desperate  earnestness  of  a  deter- 
mined profligate,  to  conclude  the  plot  against 
her,  as  it  had  been  settled  by  his  companions 
in  iniquity,  during  the  delivery  of  the  con- 
cluding flohloqny.  He  came  close  to  her, 
and  wound  his  arm  fondly  round  her  waist, 
as  she  was  endeavoring  to  put  her  disorder- 
ed thoughts  into  something  resembling  pur- 
pose, bringing  his  face  as  near  to  hers  as  he 
might,  and  gazing  into  her  eyes  with  the  most 
fond  and  passionate  glances. 

"  My  sweet  life,"  murmured  he,  in  such 
soft  and  thrilling  tones  as  he  fancied  would 
be  most  effective,  "  We  dally  with  opportu- 
nity. The  happiness  T  have  so  long  coveted 
and  so  thoroughly  strove  to  deserve,  should 


now,  methinks,  be  my  just  reward.  Love 
beckons  us  to  mutual  bliss.  Hither  with  me 
awhile,  upon  those  balmy  lips  to  breathe  new 
life,  and  taste  such  joy  as  the  enamored  soul 
alone  can  know.  Prithee,  come  this  way, 
my  heart ! — my  queen  ! — my  treasure  !" — 
The  gentle  Mabel  allowed  herself  to  be  borne 
unresistingly  towards  the  next  chamber — 
seemingly  as  if  stupefied  by  the  fascinating 
gaze  of  her  licentious  companion,  who  hung 
over  her  exquisite  countenance  as  he  drew 
her  along,  like  a  gloating  serpent — but  the 
noble  pride  of  her  nature  at  last  made  itself 
manifest,  for  as  she  came  near  the  door,  on  a 
sudden  she  burst  from  his  hold,  and  retreat- 
ing back  a  pace  or  two,  fixed  on  him  a  look 
of  such  utter  scorn  as  would  have  crushed  a 
meaner  wretch  to  the  earth. 

"  Thou  shameless  villain  !'*  exclaimed 
she,  her  voice  half  choked  with  the  fulness 
of  her  emotions.  "  Thou  pitiful  traitor  to 
all  true  love  and  honesty !  Dost  call  this 
nobleness  ?  Dost  style  this  honor  ?  How 
tiarest  thou  attempt  to  pass  off  such  base- 
ness for  the  behavior  of  a  princely  person  ?" 

"  Why,  how  now  ?"  cried  the  gallant  in 
real  astonishment.  "  What  meaneth  this 
unworthy  language  and  these  terrible  indig- 
nant loqijis  ?" 

'•  What  mean  they  ?"  replied  the  poor 
foundling,  her  lustrous  eyes  flashing  with 
scorn,  and  her  whole  countenance,  as  he 
had  justly  observed,  looking  terribly  indig- 
nant. "  They  mean  that  thou  hast  been 
hugely  mistaken  in  me,  as  hitherto  have  I 
been  in  thee.  I  am  not  of  such  worthless 
stuff  as  thou  hast  supposed.  1  did  believe 
thee  all  thou  didst  assume,  and  therefore, 
felt  no  fear.  Thou  didst  seem  honorable. 
I  thought  thee  so." 

"  Prithee,  let  us  have  no  more  of  this," 
observed  the  gallant,  impatiently.  "  I  mar- 
vel thou  shouldst  get  into  .so  famous  a  pas- 
sion about  nothing,  after  having  enjoyed  at 
my  expense  such  bounteous  entertainment." 

"  I  needed  it  not — I  asked  it  not,"  answer- 
ed Mabel.  "  It  was  forced  on  me  under  color 
of  honorable  intents  ;  but  now  1  know  the 
baseness  of  its  ends,  I  will  not  be  a  partaker 
of  it  another  minute  of  my  life." 

"  Not  so  fast,  my  pretty  tyrantess  !"  ex- 
claimed lier  companion.  "  I  cannot  part 
with  thee  so  soon,  or  lessen  the  splendor 
of  which  thou  hast  so  liberally  partaken. — 
Nor  can  I  believe  thou  wouldst  play  so  ill 
a  part  as  this  thoa  art  about.  Come,  come, 
sweetest !  tliis  humor  becomes  thee  not  at 
all." 

"  Away — I  am  not  to  be  beguiled  !"  cried 
the  fair  foundling,  eluding  his  approaches. 

"  Nay,  'tis  too  liard  a  thing — I  cannot  think 


128 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


of  it,"  replied  the  other,  standing  before  the 
door  slie  sought  to  make  her  exit  out  of.  "  I 
must  not  see  my  full  great  pains  and  cost 
all  come  to  nought — 'tis  out  of  justice  and 
against  all  right.  Marry,  wouldst  take  thy 
pleasure  and  not  pay  the  price  !" 

"  I  tell  thee  once  again,  I  took  it,  thinking 
it  was  honorably  given,"  said  Mabel.  "  Thou 
didst  not  mention  price,  thou  talked  of  honor  ! 
Didst  think  that  1  would  barter  away  my  own 
respect  to  lie  in  costly  lodging  and  be  clothed 
in  delicate  attire  ?  Take  back  thy  pitiful 
bribes,"  continued  she,  as  she  tore  from  her 
person  her  jewels,  her  chains  of  gold,  and 
sparkling  rings,  and  dashed  them  at  his  feet. 
"I  loathe  all  I  have  had  of  thee — I  loathe 
still  more  the  villain  who  could  put  them  to 
so  base  a  purpose." 

"  Ha,  dost,  indeed !"  exclaimed  her  gal- 
lant, his  fiice  now  assuming  some  anger. — 
"  O'  my  life,  I  will  not  be  so  easily  thrust 
aside.  I  have  done  what  ought  to  satisfy 
any  reasonable  woman.  Indct'd,  I  have  had 
more  cost  and  pains  taken  with  thee  than 
witli  any  half  dozen  others  I  liave  fancied  ; 
but  if  fair  words  will  not  do  with  thee,  foul 
deeds  shall.  Thou  art  so  completely  in  my 
power  that  resistance  is  useless.  'Tis  vain 
struggling.     Thou  mu.s^  needs  sijbmit." 

"  ()h,  I  beseech  thee,  have  some  pity  !" 
cried  the  poor  foundling,  falling  on  her  knees 
at  his  feet  with  a  look  so  moving,  the  sa- 
vagest  beast  must  have  been  tamed  at  the 
sight  of  it.  "  Surely,  tliou  meanest  not 
such  evil  as  thou  speakest ;  I  cannot  think 
so  ill  of  thee.  Thou  art,  indeed, tiiat  princely 
person  I  once  thought,  and  knowest  and  fcel- 
e.st  in  thy  inmost  heart,  it  is  no  part  of  no- 
bleness to  wrong  a  poor  maid.  Let  mo  go 
in  honor  from  tliy  house,  I'll  pray  for  thee 
all  my  days.  I'll  hold  thee  ever  after  a  true 
good  friend — a  bountiful  sweet  lord,  the  very 
noblest  gentleman  that  breathes.  My  lord — 
my  worthy  lord — my  honorable,  good  lord — 
as  (lod  shall  pity  thee,  so  pity  my  poor  state." 

.She  might  have  implored  a  stone.  'J'lie 
licentious  noble,  witli  his  looks  burning  with 
ills  dishonest  passions,  drew  her  in  his  arms 
towards  the  adjoiiiiiig  (diamber,  though  she 
clung  to  his  limbs  with  desperate  grasp,  and 
continued  with  straiiiingeyeballsand  hoarse- 
thick  voice,  to  pray  his  mercy.  As  he  held 
lier  before  him,  her  hands,  clutching  him 
wildly  as  she  was  borne  along,  at  one  time 
fell  upon  the  jewelled  pfnnmcl  of  his  dagger. 
In  a  moment  the  blade  was  out  of  its  sheath 
— in  the  next  she  had  twisted  iierself  free  of 
his  grasp,  and  stood  at  some  di;;tance  froni 
liim,  with  one  hand  striving  to  stay  the  throb- 
bing of  her  heart,  and  the  other,  holding  <uil 
the  weapon  threateningly  before  l.ct.     Tlie 


beauty  of  her  countenance  was  now  abso- 
lutely sublime.  There  was  in  it  a  lofty 
grandeur  of  expression  that  can  scarce  be 
conceived.  Her  eyes  seemed  fountains  of 
living  lightning,  and  her  beautiful  lips  ap- 
peared to  curl  with  an  unutterable  sense  of 
outraged  majesty  no  language  can  give  the 
remotest  idea  of. 

"  Touch  me  at  thy  peril !"  exclaimed  she, 
as  audible  as  her  perturbed  state  would  al- 
low. Her  companion  seemed  so  completely 
taken  by  a.stonishment.that  for  a  moment  he 
stared  at  her  as  if  uncertain  what  to  he  about. 
At  last  he  made  a  movement  as  if  he  would 
approach  her,  and  on  the  instant,  her  left 
ann  was  pointed  towards  him  as  stiffly  as 
though  it  had  been  iron,  whilst  her  right 
clutched  the  dagger  a  little  behind  her. — 
She  elevated  herself  to  her  full  height,  and 
threw  her  head  somewhat  back,  with  a  look 
and  a  manner  that  showed  a  stern  determi- 
nation. 

"  I  warn  thee  I"  muttered  the  poor  found- 
ling, in  a  terrible  earnestness  ;  "  if  thou 
dost  but  come  within  arm's  lengtli  of  me  lo 
follow  up  thy  villainous  intentions,  as  Jesu 
shall  save  my  soul,  TU  cleave  thy  heart  in 
twain .'" 

The  profligate  drew  back.  He  dared  not 
battle  with  the  tierce  storm  he  had  raised; 
so,  saying  he  would  send  to  her  those  who 
would  soon  have  her  out  of  her  tragedy  hu- 
mor, he  turned  on  his  heel  to  seek  the  as- 
sistance of  his  vile  associates.  JMabel,  in 
the  same  attitude,  and  with  the  same  look, 
followed  him  step  by  stej)  to  the  door.  When 
she  heard  his  departing  foot,  she  looked  to 
the  fastenings,  there  were  none  inside  llio 
chamber — she  dropped  her  dagger  and  clasp- 
ed her  hands  in  des|)air.  On  a  sudden,  a 
thought  struck  her.  She  ran  to  the  case- 
ment and  threw  it  open.  Il  lookeil  into  tiic 
garden,  above  whicli  it  stood  some  ten  feet. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  leaped 
out,  and  tindin;^  hersellsale  when  slie  cauie 
to  the  gnuuid,  llew  down  the  garden  like  an 
escaped  hiiil.  Keeping  the  wail  in  \iew,  she 
came,  out  of  breath,  to  a  door  at  its  extremi- 
ty, it  was  partly  open.  She  dashed  through 
it,  staggered  lorward,  and  loll,  with  a  wild 
hysterical  laugh,  into  the  ready  arms  of  Sir 
Valcnline. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


129 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Forth  goeth  all  the  court,  both  most  and  lest, 
To  fetch  the  floures  fresh, and  branch  and  blome. 
And  namely  hauthorn  brought  both  page  and 

grome 
And  then  rejoysen  in  their  great  delite  : 
Eke  ech  at  other  throw  the  floures  bright. 
The  primrose,  the  violete,  and  the  gold, 
With  fresh  garlants  party  blew  and  white. 

Chaucer, 
There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl,  this  day 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deaie  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Herrick. 
In  this  our  spacious  isle  I  think  there  is  not  one, 
But  he  hath  heard  some  talk  of  him  and  eke  of 

Little  John, 
Of  Tuck  the  merry  friar,  which  many  a  sermon 

made  [trade. 

In  praise  of  Robin  Hood,  his  outlaws,  and  their 
And  of  his  mistress  dear,  his  loved  Marian. 

Draytox. 
Shall  the  hobby  horse  be  forgot  then  ? 
The  hopefiil  hobby  horse,  shall  he  lie  foundered? 
Beaumo:^t  a.n'd  Fletcher. 

The  feeling  with  which  the  youthful  poet 
regarded  the  fair  object  of  his  recent  adven- 
ture, if  it  should  he  called  love,  was  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  passion  which  goeth  under 
that  name.  In  fact,  it  was  more  a  senti- 
ment than  a  passion — rather  the  offspring  of 
the  intellect  than  of  the  affections.  It  was 
the  first  rosy  hues  of  light  which  ushereth 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  soul,  producing  the 
fairest  glimpses  of  heaven,  before  the  atmos- 
phere hath  heat  enough  to  warm  the  blood. 
Love  it  was  beyond  all  doubt,  but  it  was  that 
peculiar  species  which  is  found  only  to  visit 
the  very  young  and  very  imaginative.  It  is 
true  it  hath  a  natural  source,  but  it  is  equal- 
ly undeniable,  it  dwelleth  in  the  fairy  regions 
of  the  ideal.  Where  there  is  early  sign  of 
great  intellect,  there  will  also  be  found  a 
like  early  sign  of  deep  feeling.  The  one  is 
supported  by  the  other,  festered,  encouraged, 
and  fed  by  it.  Beauty  is  indeed  the  air  it 
breathes,  but  imagination  is  the  soil  from 
which  it  draws  its  nourishment.  The  boy 
genius  is  ever  the  boy  lover,  and  having 
Ibmid  some  gentle  being  worthy  to  be  en- 
shrined in  the  sanctuary  of  his  hopes,  he 
proceeds  not  only  to  invest  her  image  with 
all  loveable  attributes,  but  with  such  loveable 
behavior  as  seemeth  most  proper  for  the  en- 
tertainment of  his  fantasy. 

He  finds  a  spirit  rising  over  his  thoughts, 

which  gives  them  a  sort  of  softened  halo, 

that  at  some  favorable  opportunity  taketh  the 

shape  of  song  or  sonnet  delicately  fashioned 

9 


— a  sensible  adoration — an  inspiration  be- 
ginning and  ending  in  a  spiritual  heaven  of 
its  own.  Ideas  take  to  themselves  wings, 
and  fly  east  and  west,  and  north  and  south, 
bringing  back  the  riches,  rarities,  and  per- 
fections of  the  whole  globe  with  which  to 
deck  this  favored  deity.  He  ransacks  the 
deepest  hollows  of  the  sea — he  snatches 
glory  from  the  shining  stars — he  makes  the 
enamelled  earth  show  all  her  bravest  tapestry 
that  he  may  choose  the  daintiest  piece  of  all 
— and  far  above,  beneath,  around,  and  about, 
where  splendor  shines,  or  modest  beauty 
hides,  he  bears  away  their  gifts,  as  offerings 
worthiest  of  so  pure  a  shrine. 

Truly,  as  hath  just  been  said,  this  is  the 
love  of  the  cool  morning  of  life,  that  differ- 
eth  as  much  in  its  nature  from  the  blushing 
sunrise  of  youth,  as  from  the  noon-tide 
heats  of  manhood ;  and  like  unto  that  early 
season  of  the  day,  it  soon  glides  into  a 
warmer  atmosphere.  Love,  such  as  this, 
will  always  be  found  to  have  no  purpose, 
save  the  deification  of  its  object,  which  it 
loves  to  worship,  rather  than  worships  to 
love.  This  way  it  goeth  on,  like  the  silk- 
W"orm  in  its  cocoon,  only  known  by  the 
pleasing  mantle  it  weaves  around  itself;  and 
having  at  last  spent  all  its  energies,  it  comes 
forth,  some  brief  space  after  its  labors,  as 
different  in  character  and  appearance  as  any 
two  things  can  be. 

This  love,  though,  let  it  be  remembered, 
made  William  Shakspeare  a  poet,  some  sign 
of  which,  albeit,  it  must  be  tliought  of  all 
judges,  one  of  no  particular  greatness,  may 
be  seen  in  the  simple  ballad  found  by  the 
antiquary  in  the  book  of  songs,  which  did 
so  much  delight  the  good  old  knight  and  his 
companions  ;  but  it  should  also  be  borne  in 
mind,  such  are  ever  first  efforts.  The  ma- 
terials of  poetry  may  lie  in  prodigal  heaps 
within  the  brain,  but  the  fashioning  them 
into  the  properest  shape  comes  but  after 
many  trials.  The  soliloquy  the  young  poet 
spoke  in  the  place  of  the  one  intended  to  end 
the  play,  deserveth  praise  only  for  the  readi- 
ness with  which  it  was  written,  and  aptness 
for  the  occasion  which  wrought  it  into  ex- 
istence. It  cannot  be  expected  the  finish  of 
an  experienced  writer,  or  the  sufficiency  of 
a  mature  genius  should  be  found  in  such 
things.  They  should  be  taken  merely  for 
what  they  appear.  Nevertheless,  if  it  be 
thought  the  poet  was  but  in  his  pot-hooks,  I 
doubt  not  in  good  time  to  show  such  craft  of 
penmanship  in  him,  as  shall  be  all  men's  ad- 
miration unto  the  end  of  time. 

Still  was  he  as  diligent  a  student  as  ever ; 
and  never  could  scholar  have  more  careful 
teachers  than  William  Shakspeare  liad  in 


130 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


Master  Peregrine,  the  antiquary,  and  Sir 
Johan,  the  chaplain.  Ever  since  the  affair 
of  the  ballad,  each  of  these  two  watched  till 
they  could  tind  the  young  student  alone,  and 
then  they  would  strive  as  never  they  strove 
before  he  should  profit  by  their  instructions, 
in  full  belief  all  the  whilst,  that  from  his 
teaching  alone,  the  youth  had  gained  all  the 
knowledge  he  possessed.  By  their  means 
he  obtained  such  an  acquaintance  with  what 
was  worthiest  of  note  in  ancient  Englisli 
literature,  and  Greek  and  Latin  classic  lore, 
as  it  was  scarce  possible  he  could  have  ob- 
tained by  any  other  means.  But  about  this 
time  he  began  more  to  observe  than  he  had 
hitlierto  done.  He  mado  comparisons — he 
judged — he  looked  into  the  meanings  of 
things — he  commenced  studying  the  appli- 
cation of  words,  and  he  analyzed  and  weigh- 
ed, and  sifted  what  he  read,  and  what  he 
saw,  till  he  could  point  out  where  lay  the 
good  and  where  the  bad — how  they  might 
be  distinguished,  and  what  was  the  differ- 
ence between  any  two  particular  matters 
that  looked  to  be  alike.  This  study  was  not 
confined  to  books ;  he  pursued  it  wherever 
he  went,  and  found  no  lack  of  subjects  in 
the  common  phenomena  of  nature.  Even  a 
drop  of  rain  was  some  object  for  speculation 
— tiie  shooting  of  a  star,  the  fructification  of 
a  plant,  and  the  falling  of  a  leaf  seemed  as 
worthy  of  inquiry.  A  storm  never  rolled 
over  him  but  the  lightning  flashed  some  new 
meaning  into  his  mind — and  he  never  wit- 
nessed the  rising  of  the  sun,  but  with  it 
came  some  fresh  light  into  his  thoughts.  As 
lie  saw  the  emmets  crowding  to  and  fro 
among  the  grass,  he  would  say,  "  Wherefore 
is  this  ?"  and  whilst  he  watched  the  builders 
of  the  grove  making  their  delicate  dwellings 
in  the  forked  branches  of  the  tree,  he  would 
exclaim,  '•  How  is  this  done  ?"  High  or  low 
he  sent  his  curious  mind  seeking  intelli- 
gence. Nothing  escaped  him,  and  to  his 
eager  questionings,  all  things  in  nature  gave 
him  ready  answers. 

The  gentle  Mabel  he  saw  not  again  all 
this  time.  He  frequented  her  favorite  haunts, 
but  she  was  nowhere  visible.  Day  after  day 
found  him  stealing  among  the  trees  where 
he  had  so  oft  watched  her  graceful  progress, 
but  his  an.\ious  gaze  was  never  blessed  with 
the  slightest  sign  of  her  presence.  He 
changed  the  time.  He  took  the  early  morn- 
ing by  the  hand  and  roamed  the  park  before 
the  hind  had  left  his  bed  of  rushes;  but 
though  nature  rose  wooingly  to  meet  his 
glance,  Ik;  looked  upon  her  graces  only  as  a 
sort  of  faint  cold  picturing  of  those  he  de- 
sired to  meet  in  all  their  living  freshness  in 
a  much  fairer  original.     He  made  himself 


familiar  with  the  moon,  and  still  did  natnre 
court  him  with  her  lovingest  looks,  and  still 
did  she  receive  such  attentions  as  proved 
she  was  merely  regarded  as  the  ambassador 
of  the  fair  sovereign  of  his  thoughts.  And 
he  lingered  out  the  hours  with  twilight,  till 
she  was  lost  in  the  embraces  of  the  shadowy 
eve,  but  with  no  other  result  than  had  ac- 
companied his  earlier  seeking.  Thus  passed 
the  winter,  till  the  frost  was  gone,  the  hearth- 
side  tales  forgotten,  the  Christmas  sports  but 
faintly  remembered,  and  everjthing  around 
was  full  of  green  promise  and  blooming  ex- 
pectation. 

The  chief  companions  of  his  own  age 
had  long  been  the  four  schoolfellows  before 
described — of  whom  Tom  Greene  was  such  a 
compound  of  oddness  and  drollery  as  was 
not  to  be  met  with  elsewhere.  None  like 
him  could  play  the  Hobby-horse  in  Friar 
Tuck,  or  the  Fool  in  the  May  Games,  or  the 
Lord  of  Misrule  in  a  Twelfth  Night  revel,  or 
the  Vice  of  a  Moral  Play.  At  plough  Mon- 
day none  was  so  much  in  request,  and  not 
less  so  was  he  at  Candlemas  eve,  or  Shrove- 
tide, or  Hocktide,  or  at  Witsun-ales,  at  a 
sheep-shearing,  or  a  harvest  home.  Dick 
Burbage  was  more  for  the  playing  of  inge- 
nious tricks,  which  he  carried  off  with  such 
a  careless  happy  impudence,  that  its  pleas- 
antry often  took  away  all  offence.  Hemings 
had  none  of  this  humor,  though  he  could 
enjoy  it  in  otliers  ;  yet  when  he  joined  his 
companions,  he  choose  to  play  a  courtly  part, 
if  such  could  be  had.  As  for  Condell  he 
was  ready  enough  to  do  whatever  the  others 
did.  He  would  play  with  them  at  shuffle- 
board,  or  shove-groat,  in  a  mumming,  or  an 
interlude,  as  eagerly  as  he  would  join  them 
in  running  at  tlie  quintain,  or  assist  them  in 
the  threshing  of  a  shrove-tide  hen.  In  fact 
he  seemed  to  care  not  what  it  was,  so  he 
was  one  of  the  party,  but  if  he  might  be 
allowed  a  preference  he  would  gladly  stand 
out  for  the  playing  of  Gammer  Gurton's 
Needle. 

During  the  time  his  thoughts  were  so  busy 
feeding  of  his  fantasy  for  the  fair  maid  of 
Charlcote,  William  Shakspeare  had  joined 
his  companions  but  seldom.  In  very  truth 
he  somewhat  shrunk  from  their  boisterous 
mirth,  for  he  liked  best  to  be  alone ;  but 
seeing  nought  of  Mabel,  his  mind  for  want 
of  that  necessary  nourishment,  relaxed 
something  in  the  earnestness  of  its  worship. 
At  such  an  age  and  with  such  a  nature  this 
ideal  idolatry  requireth  at  least  tlie  frequent 
presence  of  the  object,  before  it  can  take 
upon  itself  tliat  warmer  devotion  which  alone 
is  lasting  and  natural ;  and  without  sight  ol 
the  idol,  the  mere  imaginative  existence  ol 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


131 


this  boyish  love  soon  becomes  manifest. 
Gradually  the  thouglits  relax  in  their  search- 
ing after  admirable  things  with  which  to 
tire  their  gentle  deity.  They  go  not  so  fnr 
— they  stay  not  so  long — they  bring  home 
less  and  less  every  day  ;  and  thus  it  goeth 
on,  the  circuit  of  their  visits  lessening  by 
degrees,  and  their  labor  becoming  corres- 
pondingly unprofitable,  till  at  last  they  cease 
altogether  going  on  any  such  errands.  Now 
it  may  be  considered  the  idolatry  is  at  an 
end,  though  some  faint  vestige  of  it  may 
linger  about  the  mind ;  but  it  is  a  bygone 
superstition  belonging  to  an  ideal  world,  that 
will  only  be  remembered  by  some  beautiful 
presence  in  nature  with  which  it  was  wont 
to  be  accompanied,  as  some  will  still  believe 
they  see  the  dryad  in  the  tree  and  the  nymph 
in  the  fountain.  This  was  the  time  for  en- 
tertaining that  deeper  worship  to  which  al- 
lusion has  just  been  made,  and  the  young 
poet  was  not  long  without  meeting  with  a 
suitable  deity  willing  to  excite  and  to  re- 
ceive it. 

Hemings'  friends  lived  at  Shottery.  a  vil- 
lage at  a  little  distance  from  Stratford,  to 
which  William  Shakspeare  and  others  of 
his  companions  occasionally  resorted,  and 
one  pleasant  afternoon  as  the  young  poet 
was  returning  from  a  visit  he  had  been  pay- 
ing to  his  schoolfellow,  he  was  aroused  from 
his  customary  meditations  when  alone,  by  a 
sweet  voice  singing  these  words  : — 

THE  SPINSTER'S  SONG. 

"  Damon  came  a  praising  me. 

Vowing  that  he  loved  me  too — 
None  like  I  so  fair  could  be, 
None  like  him  could  be  so  true. 
I  meant  to  chide,  l)ut  spoke  no  sound — 
And  still  my  wheel  went  round  and  round. 

"  Damon,  somewhat  bolder  grown. 
In  his  hand  mine  fondly  placed, 
Pressed  it  gently  in  his  own, 

Then  his  arm  twined  round  my  waist. 
Somehow  I  smiled  instead  of  frowned, 
And  still  my  wheel  went  round  and  round. 

"  Damon  brought  his  face  nigh  mine, 

Though  he  knows  I  kisses  hate  ; 
I  would  baulk  his  base  design — 
But,  the  wretch,  he  did  it  straight ! 
And  then  again  ! — and  still  I  found 
That  still  my  wheel  went  round  and  round." 

During  the  singing  of  these  verses,  the 
young  poet  was  engaged  in  observing  the 
singer.  At  a  little  distance  from  the  road, 
running  between  Shottery  and  Stratford,  was 
a  neat  cottage,  trailed  all  over  with  a  goodly 
pear  tree,  then  in  full  blossom,  with  a  grass 


plat  before  it.  It  was  not  one  of  the  com- 
mon sort  of  cottages,  for  it  possessed  an  ap- 
pearance of  comfort  and  respectability  which 
showed  it  belonged  to  some  person  at  least 
of  the  rank  of  a  yeoman.  There  was  in 
one  place  a  famous  brood  of  poultry,  and  in 
another  a  good  fat  sow,  with  a  litter  of  pigs, 
wandering  about  at  their  will.  A  fair  gar- 
den and  orchard  stood  beyond  the  house, 
and  in  a  neat  paddock  at  the  side  were  a  cow 
and  a  favorite  pony.  At  the  open  door, 
through  which  might  be  seen  notable  signs 
of  the  solid  comfort  that  prevailed  within, 
some  two  or  three  very  young  children  were 
taking  of  their  supper  of  porridge  in  wooden 
bowls,  occasionally  throwing  h  spoonful  to 
the  fowls,  to  the  monstrous  gratification  of 
both  parties  ;  whilst  farther  off  a  boy,  of  some 
eight  or  ten  years  was  amusing  himself  with 
a  tame  rabbit.  The  singer,  however,  was 
none  of  these.  At  a  spinning  wheel,  placed 
close  to  the  house  at  a  few  yards  from  the 
door,  there  sat  a  blooming  girl,  attired  with 
that  sort  of  daintiness  with  which  such  fair 
creatures  do  love  to  set  off  their  comeliness. 
She  was  the  singer.  There  was  a  laughing 
careless  air  with  her  as  she  sung  the  words, 
that,  in  the  eyes  of  the  spectator,  much 
heightened  the  provocation  of  her  pouting 
lips,  and  large,  soft,  languishing  eyes,  her 
rich  dark  complexion,  and  the  budding  full- 
ness of  her  figure. 

William  Shakspeare  had  crept  unseen  be- 
hind a  large  walnut  tree  that  stood  in  front 
of  the  cottage,  where  he  stood  like  one  spell- 
bound, drinking  in  at  his  eyes  such  intoxi- 
cating draughts  of  beauty,  that  they  put  him 
into  a  steep  forgetfulness  of  all  other  mat- 
ters in  a  presently;  and  here  doubtless  he 
would  have  stood,  I  know  not  how  long,  had 
not  the  singer  made  some  sign  she  was  aware 
of  his  vicinity — perchance  she  knew  it  all 
the  time — however,  spying  of  a  handsome 
youth  gazing  on  her  in  a  manner  she  could 
not  misinterpret,  she  rose  from  her  seat  in  a 
seeming  great  surprise,  and  as  she  did  so 
the  young  poet,  in  voluntary  homage  to  the 
power  he  had  so  well  inclined  to  honor,  un- 
covered his  head.  There  they  stood,  notic- 
ing of  nothing  but  each  other,  and  neither 
saying  a  word.  All  at  once  the  little  chil- 
dren dropped  their  bowls,  and  with  infantile 
exclamations  of  delight  ran  as  fast  as  they 
could  to  a  tall,  honest-looking,  manly  sort  of 
a  man,  who  with  a  keg  slung  across  his 
shoulders,  and  in  a  working  dress,  seemed  as 
if  he  had  just  come  from  his  labor  in  the 
fields.  The  young  poet  turned  and  beheld 
this  person  close  behind  him,  with  the  chil- 
dren clinging  to  his  legs  with  every  appear- 
ance of  exquisite  sweet  pleasure. 


132 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


"Hallo,  young  sir!  what  dost  want?" 
inquired  he,  eyeing  the  youthful  Shaks- 
peare  with  some  curiousness. 

"  Truly,  I  want  nothing,"  replied  the  latter, 
a  little  taken  by  surprise,  as  it  were ;  "  I 
was  but  attracted  here  by  some  sweet  sing- 
ing, and  did  not  imagine  I  was  doing  of  any 
wrong  by  listening." 

"  Humph  !"  exclaimed  the  elder,  perfectly 
conscious  that  this  was  the  truth;  for  he, 
having  been  behind  the  youth  from  the  first, 
had  witnessed  the  whole  aflair.  "  What's 
th}'^  name?"  added  he. 

''  William  Shakspearc,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Thought  so,  give's  tliee  liand,"  said  the 
other  frankly,  and  in  the  next  moment  the 
young  poet  found  his  palm  gi'asped  by  his 
new  acquaintance  with  a  friendliness  that 
quite  astonislied  him.  "  Thy  father  and  I 
are  old  friends  from  boys.  Ask  of  him  if  he 
know  not  John  Hathaway.  IMany  a  time 
hath  he  been  in  my  house,  and  as  oft  have  I 
been  in  his  ;  and  famous  sport  have  we  had 
together,  I'll  warrant.  But  some  how  I  ha\'o 
seen  nought  of  him  of  late.  As  for  thyself, 
I  have  heard  very  creditable  report  of  thee, 
and  therefore  say,  with  all  heartiness,  I  am 
glad  to  see  thee  here — so  thou  must  needs 
come  in  and  take  a  bit  of  supper  with  us." 

William  Shakspeare  was  in  no  niood  for 
refusing  of  such  a  request ;  he  accepted  the 
invitation  as  freely  as  it  was  given,  and  both 
entered  the  cottage  together.  There  the 
rack  filled  with  bacon — the  logs  blazing 
comfortably  in  the  deep  chimney,  with  the 
gtm  hanging  above,  and  the  store  of  platters, 
bowls,  trenchers,  and  other  household  things 
that  surrounded  him  on  every  side,  were 
most  convincing  proof  to  the  visitor  that  the 
owner  lived  in  no  sort  of  want. 

"  Here,  Anne,  take  these  things,  and  draw^ 
us  a  jug  of  ale,"  cried  John  Hathaway,  put- 
ting down  on  the  table  what  he  had  carried 
on  his  shoulder,  as  the  singer  hastened  to- 
wards him,  and  would  have  a  kiss  with  the 
rest — a  proceeding  by  the  way,  which  his 
guest  regarded  with  something  of  envy. 
"  Then  put  these  young  ones  to  their  beds, 
and  afterwards  cut  us  a  delicate  rasher,  with 
such  other  things  as  thou  hast  for  eating  ; 
for  here  is  the  son  of  an  honest  friend  of 
mine  who  meancth  to  sup  with  us." 

"  You  shall  have  a  most  dainty  supper 
anon,  father,"  replied  his  daughter,  busying 
herself  without  delay  to  do  as  she  was  re- 
quired. In  the  meanwhile  the  youtliful 
Shakspeare  was  making  friends  witii  tlie 
children,  and  by  the  kind  affectionateness  of 
his  manner  (piickly  won  their  little  hearts. 

"  Come,  draw  up  thy  chair,  friend  Will, 
and  take  a  drink,"  said  his  host,  seating 


himself  in  the  chimney  corner,  where  there 
were  seats  on  each  side.  William  Shaks- 
peare did  as  he  was  bid,  nothing  loath,  and 
presently  the  two  fell  into  conversing  alxjut 
ordinary  matters,  and  from  these  to  other 
topics  of  more  interest.  The  young  visitor 
appeared  desirous  of  making  a  favorable 
impression  upon  his  host,  for  he  endeavored 
to  make  all  his  talk  turn  upon  what  the 
other  was  most  familiar  w^ith,  and  spoke  so 
learnedly  upon  the  state  of  the  crops,  thn 
best  system  of  tillage,  the  prospects  of  tho 
lambing  season,  and  the  breed  of  live  stock, 
that  he  not  only  won  the  honest  yeoman'.-- 
heart,  but  he  astonished  him  monstrously 
into  the  bargain.  All  the  whilst  he  failed 
not  to  give  an  occasional  admiring  glance  at 
the  movements  of  his  new  friend's  buxom 
daughter,  who  for  her  part  seemed  to  give 
back  his  looks  with  some  interest. 

"How  dost  like  our  Anne's  singing?"' 
inquired  John  Hathaway,  when  his  daughter 
had  left  the  chamber  to  put  the  children  to 
their  beds. 

"  Very  exceedingly  I  do  assure  you," 
replied  the  youth,  with  a  notable  sincerity. 

"  Humph !"  exclaimed  the  father,  as 
though  he  were  a  thinking  of  something  he 
cared  not  to  give  speech  to.  "Indeed  she 
hath  a  sweet  throat."  Nothing  more  was 
said  on  that  head  at  that  moment ;  and  they 
again  talked  of  country  matters,  till  his  host 
cound  not  any  longer  contain  his  great  won- 
dering at  his  guest's  marvellous  insight  into 
sucli  things,  and  inquired  how  he  acquired 
it ;  whereupon  the  other  truly  answered  he 
got  it  questioning  of  those  w'hose  business 
it  was.  In  good  time  the  yeoman's  bloom- 
ing daughter  returned,  and  busied  herself 
with  preparations  for  supper,  taking  care 
whenever  she  could  to  have  her  share  in 
the  discourse  which  slio  did  with  a  pretty 
sprightlincss  exceedingly  agreeable  to  her 
young  admirer.  Seeing  her  attempting  to 
move  the  great  table  nearer  to  the  fire,  he 
nuist  needs  jump  up,  and  with  a  graceful 
officiousness,  seek  to  do  it  himself,  the 
which  she  appeared  to  object  to  in  some 
manner,  and  there  was  a  little  arguing  ot 
the  matter  betwixt  them — the  father  looking 
on  with  a  glimmering  suiile,  as  if  he  could 
see  in  it  something  exceeding  pleasant. 
The  end  was,  that  the  two  young  people 
carried  the  table  togetlier,  manifestly  to 
their  extreme  satisfactii^i. 

This  John  Hathaway  wa»  one  of  Uie  most 
industrious  yeon)en  in  the  country,  and  had 
been  sometime  a  widower.  He  was  of  a 
famous  pleasant  temper,  but  was  far  froui 
making  a  boisterous  show  of  it.  He  delight- 
I  ed  greatly  to  assist  in  the  honest  pleasures  ot 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


133 


any  other,  j^et  few  could  guess   from  his 
manner  on  sucli  occasions,  that  he  took  the 
interest  in  it  he  did.     Indeed  he  was  some- 
what of  a  sly  humor,  and  liked  none  to  know 
when  he  was   most  pleased.     His  honest, 
well-embrowned  countenance,  set  off  with 
hair  and  beard,  getting  to  be   grey,  never 
ventured  on  such  occasions  beyond  a  lurking 
smile,  and  even  then  he  seemed  to  take  care 
the  parties  who  had  excited  it,  should  not 
see.     Doubtless  he   was  in  a  rare  humor 
with  his  new  acquaintance,  but  though  he 
lacked  nothing  in  hospitality,  he  appeared  to 
hear  him  and  regard  him  with  so  staid  an 
aspect,  it  was  difficult  for  the  latter  to  know 
whether  he  was  satisfied  with  him  or  other- 
wise.    Still  the  youth  continued  seeking  to 
entertain  his  host  with  his  converse,  having 
sufficient  reward  in  the  approving  glances  of 
the  other's  sprightly  daughter,  who  was  well 
enough  acquainted  with  such  things  to  take 
a  singular  pleasure  in  observing  the  skill 
with  which  her  young  admirer  spoke  of  them. 
In  due  time  the  rashers  were  done,  and 
with   a  store  of  other  wholesome  victual, 
were  put  on  a  fair  white  cloth,  that  covered 
the    table,  and    William   Shakspeare   was 
pressed  with  blunt  courtesy  by  the  father, 
.ind  a  more  winning  persuasiveness  by  the 
daughter,  to   partake  of  the  fare  set  before 
him.     This  he  essayed  to  do  with  a  notable 
good   will.     After  this  the  blooming  Anne 
brewed  a  goodly  posset,  and   wlulst   they 
were  enjoying  it,  her  father  called  on  her  to 
sing  him  a  song,  the  which  she  seemed  a 
little, — a  very  little  to  hesitate  upon,  with  a 
sort  of  pretty  coyness  time  out  of  mind  cus- 
tomary  under   similar   circumstances,   but 
after  the  handsome  youth  had  pressed  her 
with  an  excellent  show  of  rhetoric,  she  sung 
a  dainty  ditty,  tlien  popular,  concerning  of 
'■  The  little  pretty  Nightingale,"  and  at  least 
one  of  the  listeners  thought  it  most  exqui- 
site sweet  singing.     Then  John  Hathaway 
would  needs  have  a  song  of  his  guest,  to 
the  which  his  daughter  added  her  entreaties 
so  prettily,  the  youthful  Shakspeare  found  it 
impossible   to   resist,  whereupon   he   com- 
menced the  siuging  of  a  favorite  love-song 
of  the  time,  beginning  "  If  I  had  wytt  for  to 
endyte."     The  words  were  of  a   pleasant 
conceit  which  gained  considerably  in  ad- 
mirableness   by  the  manner  of  his  singing, 
and  the  tune,  by  means  of  his  rich,  clear 
voice,  came  upon  the  air  a  very  river  of 
melody.     Whether  the   yeomen   liked   the 
song   could  only  be   told   by  the  pleasure 
lurking  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
shining  quaintly  in  his  half-closed  eye-lids, 
which  might  be  interpreted  he  saw  more  in 
it  tlian  the   singer  imagined — however,  that 


his  daughter  relished  it  there  could  be  no 
questioning,  for  her  smiles  were  full  as  evi- 
dent as  her  praises. 

"  Now  friend  Will,  thee  must  be  a  going," 
exclaimed  John  Hathaway  at  last,  in  his 
usual  plain  countryman  sort  of  manner. 
"  'Tis  my  custom  to  go  to  bed  with  the  lamb, 
and  rise  with  the  lark — an  excellent  good 
custom  I'll  warrant — so  I'll  e'en  bid  thee  a 
fair  good  night — nevertheless  I  will  add  to  it 
I  shall  be  happy  to  see  thee  at  all  times — ■ 
and  if  I  be  not  at  home,  perchance  Anne  will 
be  as  happy  to  see  thee  as  myself."  He 
said  this  with  a  look  of  humor  that  shone 
through  all  the  staidness  of  his  aspect,  and 
shaking  his  visitor  heartily  by  the  hand,  he 
opened  the  door  for  his  exit.  His  daughter 
denied  not  a  word  of  what  her  father  had 
said.  Indeed,  her  glances,  as  she  bade  the 
youth  good  night,  as  plainly  said — "  Come 
again,"  as  ever  was  expressed  by  a  pair  of 
bright  eyes  since  the  world  began. 

William  Shakspeare  returned  home  with 
his  feelings  in  a  sort  of  delicious  pleasure, 
perfectly  new  to  him.  Be  sure  he  would 
have  hastened  to  the  cottage  next  day,  only 
he  was  forced  to  be  at  Sir  Marmaduke's 
according  to  promise.  The  old  knight  took 
huge  delight  in  having  all  festivals  and  holi- 
days kept  with  due  ceremony  at  his  mansion. 
He  would  not  have  omitted  the  slightest 
things  savored  of  the  old  times.  Knowing 
tliis,  the  antiquary  called  his  young  scholar 
to  his  counsels,  for  the  express  purpose  of  ■ 
getting  up  the  festival  of  the  May  in  such  a 
manner  as  should  outdo  all  former  things  of 
the  like  sort,  and  the  youth  had  been  com- 
missioned to  press  into  his  service  whoever 
he  thought  could  afford  him  proper  assist- 
ance. These  he  had  to  make  familiar  with 
their  duties.  But  if  he  did  not  visit  the  fair 
singer  that  day,  be  sure  he  did  the  day  fol- 
lowing, invested  with  extraordinary  powers 
by  his  friend  Master  Peregrine,  with  which 
he  acquainted  his  new  acquaintance  John 
Hathaway,  and  to  his  exceeding  satisfac- 
tion found  they  were  favorably  entertained 
of  him :  the  purport  of  which  will  be  seen  anon. 
Scarce  had  the  last  day  of  April  closed, 
when,  by  the  sweet  moonlight,  William 
Shakspeare,  with  a  famous  company  of  both 
sexes — friends,  tenants,  servants,  and  others, 
started  to  a  neighboring  wood,  where  they 
searched  about  for  all  manner  of  flowers  then 
in  season,  which  they  gathered  into  nose- 
gays and  garlands  ;  and  broke  down  blos- 
soming boughs  of  trees,  chiefly  of  birch, 
green  sycamore,  and  hawthorn,  to  carry  home 
with  them  to  deck  the  doors  and  porches 
withal,  and  make  a  goodly  Maypole.  Fa- 
mous sport  had  they  all  the  while,  laughing 


134 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


and  shouting,  frolicking  in  the  grass,  and 
wandering  about  dispersedly,  making  the 
whole  country  ring  witii  their  mirth.  About 
sunrise  they  again  joined  company — men, 
women,  and  children — each  laden  witli  the 
spoil  of  the  Spring.  A  tall  elm  had  been 
cut  down,  and  a  .straight  and  taper  pole  fitted 
to  the  end  of  it,  and  painted  in  spiral  lines  of 
yellow  and  black.  It  was  then  prodigally 
adorned  with  garlands  of  fresh  flowers  and 
new  ribbon  of  the  gayest  colors.  Some 
forty  yoke  of  o.xen  belonging  to  Sir  Marma- 
duke,  with  each  a  sweet  posey  at  the  tip  of 
his  horns  had  then  to  draw  it  home,  accom- 
panied on  its  slow  march  with  tlie  whole  of 
the  company,  bearing  their  green  boughs, 
savory  herbs,  and  odorous  blossoms. — sing- 
ing, leaping,  and  dancing,  as  if  nothing  could 
exceed  their  pleasure. 

Tlie  Maypole  having  been  drawn  to  an 
open  place  in  the  park,  convenient  to  the 
house,  was  raised  up  oh  high  with  a  great 
shouting  and  glee  ;  and  it  was  a  right  dainty 
sight  to  note  tlie  streamers  dancing  merrily 
in  the  breeze,  and  the  various  colors  of  the  { 
delicate  blossoms.     Having  done  this,  the  j 
principals  of  the  festival  had  other  jirepara- 
tions  to  make,  which  they  set  about  with  a 
proper  earnestness.     All  the  armor  in  the  | 
old  hall  was  presently  hid  under  boughs  and  | 
flowers,  and  the  like  decorations  were  pro- 
digally bestowed  in  every  direction  about  the  | 
liouse.     On  the  floor  the  long  tables  were 
spread  with  cakes  and  other  choice  cates 
for   whoever  chose  to  come.     The    whole 
neighborhood  looked  like  a  fairy  bower,  and 
crowds  of  persons  in  strange  garments  came 
thronging  in  and  out,  looking  as  joyful  as 
ever  tliey  had  been  in  their  days. 

After  this,  wholesome  viands,  and  ale  of 
the  best  might  be  had  in  dilFerent  bowers 
made  of  branches  of  trees  in  the  pnrk ;  and 
at  dinner  there  was  a  most  prodigal  lianquet 
of  everything  for  to  eat  and  to  drink  that 
could  be  pr(>cnred.  Here  was  a  gammon  of 
bacon-pie,  there  a  Iamb  dressed  whole — in 
one  place  a  venison  pasty,  in  another  a  great 
lish,  a  shield  of  brawn  with  mustard,  a  chine 
of  beef  roasted,  baked  chowets,  a  kid  with  a 
pudding  in  the  belly,  and  all  manner  of 
poultry,  made  but  a  small  stock  of  the  won- 
derful load  of  victiiiil  under  which  the  table 
groaned.  Even  the  lower  messes  had  most 
handsome  entertainment,  and  every  jilace 
bore  sign  of  mo.st  sumptuous  feasting.  The 
great  variety  of  dresses  then  worn,  and  the 
happy  joyous  faces  there  visible,  made  the 
whole  scene  as  ])leasant  a  one  as  could  bo 
imagined  ;  but  the  goodliest  feature  of  it  all 
was  old  Sir  Marmaduke  in  his  customary 
place  at  the  top  of  the  table,  regarding  every 


one  with  the  same  graciousness,  and  only 
looking  around  iiim  to  see  that  all  present 
were  as  happy  as  he  thought  they  ought  to 
be.  Of  the  jests  that  tiew  about,  or  of  the 
tricks  that  were  played,  I  can  make  scarce 
any  mention.  The  strangeness,  iiowever,  of 
some  groups,  methinks  should  not  escape 
notice  ; — for  in  one  place  St.  George  and 
the  dragon,  forgetful  of  their  deadly  enmity, 
were  shaking  hands  introductory  to  drinking 
each  other's  health  ;  in  another,  Robin  Hood 
and  little  John,  as  regardless  of  their  mutual 
love,  were  seeking  which  could  lay  fastest 
hold  of  a  tankard  each  had  got  a  hand  upon ; 
here  the  fool  was  cunningly  emptying  of 
Friar  Tuck's  full  trencher  into  his  own 
empty  one,  whilst  the  other  was  turning  a 
moment  on  one  side  in  amorous  gossip  with 
his  acquaintance,  maid  Marian  ;  and  then 
the  hobby-horse  was  knocking  together 
the  heads  of  Will  Stukely  and  Much,  the 
miller's  son,  who  were  leaning  over  each 
other,  lauglungly  regarding  the  proceedings 
of  their  friend  in  motley. 

After  this,  by  the  great  exertions  of  young 
Shakspeare,  tins  goodly  company  returned 
to  the  park  in  the  following  order  : — hrst, 
went  one  playing  on  the  bagpipes,  and 
another  on  the  tabor,  making  as  much  noise 
as  they  could  ;  then  followed  the  Morris- 
dancers,  with  their  faces  blackened,  their 
coats  of  white  spangled  fustian,  with  scarfs, 
ribbons,  and  laces  dying  from  every  part, 
holding  rich  handkerchiefs  in  their  hands, 
and  wearing  purses  at  their  girdles,  garters 
to  their  knees,  with  some  thirty  or  forty  lit- 
tle bells  attached  to  them,  and  feathers  at 
their  hats,  with  other  bells  at  tlieir  wrists 
and  elbows.  They  danced  as  they  went, 
and  flaunted  their  handkerchiefs  very  brave- 
ly. Then  came  six  comely  damsels,  dressed 
in  blue  kirlles,  and  wearing  garlands  of 
primroses.  After  them,  as  many  foresters 
in  tunics,  hoods,  and  hose,  all  of  grass  green, 
and  each  of  them  with  a  bugle  at  his  side, 
a  sheaf  of  arrows  at  his  girdle,  and  a  bent 
bow  in  his  hand. 

After  them  walked  William  Shakspeare, 
equipped  as  Robin  Hood,  in  a  bright  grass 
green  tunic,  fringed  with  gold  ;  liis  hood 
and  hose  part-colored  blue  and  white  ;  his 
handsome  liead  was  crt)wned  with  a  g-.irlaud 
of  rose-buds  ;  ho  bore  a  bow  in  his  hand,  a 
sheaf  of  arrows  in  his  girdle,  and  a  bugle- 
horn  suspended  from  a  baldrick  of  light  blue 
taiantine,  embroidered  with  silver,  worn  from 
his  shoulder.  A  handsome  sword  and  dag- 
ger formed  also  part  of  his  equipments.  On 
one  side  of  him  walked  IIemini;s.  as  Little 
John  ;  on  the  other  ('ondeil,  as  Will  Stuke- 
ly; and  divers  otliers  of  the  merry  outlaw's 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


135 


companions  followed,  two  by  two,  all  in  their 
suits  of  green,  and  each  with  a  sheaf  of  ar- 
rows at  his  girdle,,  and  a  bent  bow  in  his 
hand.  Then  came  two  fair  damsels,  in  or- 
ange colored  kirtles,  with  white  court-pies 
or  vests,  preceding  Anne  Hathaway,  as  Maid 
Marian,  attired  in  a  watchet-colored  tunic 
reaching  to  the  ground,  with  a  white  linen 
rochet,  with  loose  sleeves  fringed  with  silver, 
and  neatly  plaited,  worn  over  it,  her  girdle 
of  silver  baudeken  fastened  with  a  double 
row  on  the  left  side ;  her  long  silken  hair, 
divided  in  many  ringlets,  flowed  down  upon 
her  fair  shoulders  ;  the  top  of  her  head  or- 
namented with  a  net-work  caul  of  gold  with 
a  garland  of  silver,  decked  with  fresh  blue 
violets  above  :  truly  as  tempting  a  Maid 
Marian  as  ever  seduced  outlaw  to  the  merry 
green  wood.  After  her  came  a  company  of 
her  maidens :  some  in  sky-colored  rochets 
girt  with  crimson  girdles,  with  garlands  of 
blue  and  white  violets ;  and  others  with 
green  court-pies,  with  garlands  of  violets 
and  cowslips. 

Then  came  Sir  Marmaduke's  fat  butler, 
as  Friar  Tuck,  caiTying  a  huge  quarter  staff 
on  his  shoulder;  and  with  him  Oliver  Dumps, 
the  constable,  as  Much,  the  miller's  son, 
bearing  a  long  pole  with  an  inflated  bladder 
attached  to  one  end  of  it.  Who  should 
come  next  but  Tom  Green,  as  the  hobby- 
horse, frisking  up  and  down,  gallopping, 
curvetting,  ambling  and  trotting  after  so 
moving  a  style,  it  naturally  forced  a  horse- 
laugh from  a  great  portion  of  the  spectators. 
It  should  be  remembered,  that  this  ancient 
feature  in  a  May-day  festival,  was  a  horse 
of  pasteboard,  having  false  legs  for  the  rider 
outside,  whilst  the  real  legs  stood  on  the 
ground,  concealed  from  the  spectators  by  the 
saddle-cloth  which  enveloped  the  hobby-horse 
all  around;  and  great  art  was  required  to 
make  a  proper  exhibition  of  horsemanship, 
by  the  person  appearing  to  be  its  rider. 
Then  came  our  old  acquaintance  Humphrey, 
in  the  form  of  a  dragon, — hissing,  yelling 
and  shaking  his  wings  in  a  most  horrid 
manner;  and  after  him  Dick  Burbage,  as 
St.  George,  in  full  armor,  ever  and  anon, 
giving  his  enemy  a  poke  behind,  with  his 
wooden  spear,  that  made  him  roar  again. 
Following  these  were  a  motley  assemblage 
of  villagers  and  guests,  and  Sir  Marmaduke, 
with  his  chaplain,  in  the  midst. 

When  they  came  to  that  open  part  of  the 
park  before  described,  the  sports  recom- 
menced with  the  spirit  they  had  not  known 
all  the  day  before.  The  foresters  shot  at 
the  target,  and  Robin  and  his  Maid  Marian 
were  of  course  the  chiefest  of  all  for  skill. 
Some  danced  round  the  Maypole ;  but  the 


dragon,  who  had  drank  more  of  the  knight's 
good  ale  than  became  any  dragon  of  gentil- 
ity, must  needs  be  after  kissing  divers  of  the 
maidens — married  man  though  he  was,  and 
this  got  him  some  whacks  from  Much,  the 
miller's  son,  besides  a  decent  cudgelling 
from  Will  Stukelyand  Little  John.  Master 
Robin,  Sir  Marmaduke's  fat  butler,  made  a 
most  jolly  Friar  Tuck  ;  for  with  an  irresist- 
able  droll  humor  in  his  roguish  eyes,  he 
would  walk  among  the  people  propping  of 
his  heavy  quarter-staff  upon  their  toes, 
whereupon  if  any  cried  out,  he  would  very 
gravely  preach  them  a  famous  sermon  on 
patience  under  pain  and  affliction  ;  and  bid- 
ding them  count  their  beads  and  say  their 
paternosters,  he  would  go  his  way. 

Many  persons  had  come  to  see  these 
sports  irom  the  neighboring  villages,  and 
these  formed  a  crowd  nearly  all  round  the 
place.  Sir  Marmaduke  and  his  guests  had 
placed  themselves  on  a  piece  of  rising 
ground  in  front  of  the  house,  some  lying 
of  their  lengths  on  the  grass,  some  leaning 
against  trees,  some  sitting,  and  some  stand- 
ing. Sir  Johan  kept  by  tiie  side  of  his  pa- 
tron with  a  pleasant  gravity,  making  a  most 
admirable  choice  tiianksgiving  for  tiie  boun- 
ties all  had  received  that  day.  Sir  Reginald, 
who  had  only  returned  to  the  mansiun  the 
same  m.orning,  was  with  his  friend  Sir  Val- 
entine, gallantly  attending  upon  a  bevy  of 
fair  ladies  who  had  come  to  u'itness  the 
sports  ;  and  Master  Peregrine  was  bustling 
about  in  a  sort  of  hdgetty  delight,  explaining 
to  every  listener  he  could  lay  hold  of,  the 
history  and  antiquity  of  every  part  of  the 
festival.  It  so  happened  that  whilst  St. 
George  was  stalking  round  the  place,  armed 
with  spear  and  buckler,  striving  to  look  as 
heroic  as  ever  could  have  done  that  renown- 
ed champion,  he  spied  the  dragon  playing  at 
bo-peep  among  the  Morris-dancers,  and 
almost  at  the  same  instant  the  dragon  spied 
him.  At  which  the  latter  commenced  ad- 
vancing into  the  middle  of  the  open  space 
betwixt  the  Maypole  and  tlie  guests,  shaking 
of  his  wings,  yelling,  and  hissing  enough  to 
frighten  all  the  champions  in  Christendom. 

St.  George,  however,  was  after  him  with 
long  strides,  till  they  met  in  a  very  choice 
place  for  lighting,  when  he  addressed  him  in 
these  words  : — 
"  Hullo,  thou  pitiful  villain,  art  thou  for  turning 

tail  ? 
Stay   liere,  I  prithee,  a   moment,   and  I  will 
make  thee  wail  I" 

Whereupon  the  dragon  answered  in  a 
monstrous  fustian  voice — 

"  Out  on  thee,  Jack  Pudding  !  or  if  thou  needs 
must  stay, 


136 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


I'll  swallow  thee — bones  and  all — and  leave  the 

rest  for  another  day." 
Then  exclaimed  the  champion  very  val- 
iantly, as  became  him — 
"Peace,  knave  !  have  done  vvitli  thy  luiinining 

and  hawing." 
And  thereupon  the  monster  replied,  in  an 
equally  tearing  humor — 
"  Gogs  zounds,  if  thou  coniest  auigh  nie   I'll 

give  thee  a  famous  clawing!" 

After  a  little  more  sucli  brave  language, 
in  which  each  got  fomously  abused  by  the 
other,  tliey  seemed  intent  upon  a  desperate 
combat  of  life  and  death.  Tlic  dragon  made 
more  noise  than  ever  lie  had ;  and  came  up- 
on his  adversary  witli  his  claws  extended, 
and  his  mouth  wide  open,  as  tliough  he 
meant  to  make  of  him  but  a  mere  mouthful : 
but  St.  George  seemed  quite  up  to  his  tricks, 
for  he  presently  clenched  his  spear  and 
braced  his  buckler,  and  gave  the  monster  so 
sore  a  poke,  he  yelled  till  the  place  echoed 
with  iiim.  Then  cried  he  out  very  lustily — 
"  Wounds  !  thou  caitiff  vile  I  thou  hast  broken  a 

joint  of  my  tail — 
I  die  !  I'm  dead  I  Oh  for  a  drop  of  small  ale  I" 
At  this  moment  up  comes  Much,  the  mil- 
ler's son  with  his  pole  and  bladder,  exclaim- 
ing to  the  deceased  monster  : — 
"  What  ho,  Sir  Dragon  I  bast  indeed  ceased  thy 

snubl)ing  ? 
Mayhap  thou  wouldst  be  the  better  for  a  decent 

drubbing." 

Upon  wiiicli  ho  began  to  lay  npon  the  mon- 
ster with  his  bladder  with  such  force  tlie 
other  started  to  life  roaring  like  a  town  bull, 
crying  out,  as  he  rubbed  himself,  very  piti- 
fully— 

"  Go,  hang  for  a  knave,  and  thy  thumping  cease, 
Canst  not  let  a  poor  dragon  die  in  peace?" 

But  as  the  miller's  son  evidently  had  no 
bowels  for  the  monster,  the  dragon  would 
not  stay  any  longer  to  bo  drubbed,  and  rose 
to  take  himself  ofF  with  what  speed  he 
might ;  but  just  at  this  moment  up  catne  the 
hobby-horse,  capering  away  in  the  most  del- 
icate fashion,  and  he  thus  addressed  the 
other : — 

"  List,  lordlings  list !  I  am  here  in  my  best  graces 
With  my  ambles,  my  trot.s.aiul  my  Canterbury 

pace.?. 
Is  not  my  tail  fresh  frizzled,  and  my  mane  new 

shorn, 
And  my   bells  and   my  plumes  arc   they  not 

bravely  worn  ? 
Stand  up  Sir  Dragon,  and  swear  me  sans  remorse 
There  never  was  seen  so  rare  a  hobby  horse." 

Upon  saying  which  he  neighed  like  a  young 
liliy,  and  cantered  and  careered  round  the 


monster,  so  that  he  could  not  move  in  any 
way.  Others  of  the  characters  came  up, 
and  they  all  had  some  droll  thing  or  another 
to  say ;  and  it  ended  witii  the  whole  party 
joining  hands  for  a  dance  round  a  Maypole, 
which  seeing,  Master  Peregrine,  wlio  had 
for  the  last  hour  tidgetted  about  as  if  he 
knew  not  what  to  do  with  himself,  suddenly 
started  from  his  place  at  the  top  of  bis 
speed,  and  in  the  next  minute  had  got  the 
dragon  by  one  hand  and  the  hobbv-horse  by 
the  other,  dancing  round  the  Maypole,  to  the 
infinite  delight  of  tlie  spectators,  with  as 
prodigal  signs  of  glee  as  though  he  were  tlie 
merriest  of  the  lot. 

The  youthful  iShakspeare  played  the  part 
of  king  of  the  festival,  and  in  princely  sort 
he  did  it  too :  for  it  was  remarked  of  many, 
so  choice  a  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian 
they  liad  never  seen.  Doubtless  he  had 
famous  opportunities  for  increasing  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  blooming  daughter  of 
John  Hathaway,  and  there  is  every  reason 
for  supposing  he  turned  them  to  good  ac- 
count. In  due  time  tiie  sports  ended,  and 
he  walked  home  with  her  and  her  father — 
who  with  his  family  liad  purposely  enjoyed 
a  holiday,  induced  to  it  by  the  representa- 
tions of  his  new  acquaintance — if  not  per- 
fectly in  love,  as  nigh  to  it  as  was  possible 
for  him  to  be. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  of  the  same  day 
when  Sir  Reginald,  for  the  first  time,  found 
himself  alone  with  his  friend  Sir  Valentine, 
he  having  managed  to  draw  the  latter  to  walk 
with  him  in  the  park,  convenient  to  the 
house.  The  sounds  of  revelry  had  ceased, 
and  both  actors  aixl  spectators  had  retired  to 
their  homes.  The  two  young  knights 
strolled  together  silently  in  the  shadow  of 
the  trees,  Sir  Valentine  thinking  it  would 
be  a  favorable  opportunity  for  him  to  ac- 
quaint his  friend  with  what  liad  talccn  place 
betwixt  him  and  the  sovereign  of  his  heart's 
affections,  and  ask  his  advice  and  assistance 
to  carry  on  his  suit  to  her  to  an  honorable 
conclusion. 

"  Dost  rememlxT  that  exquisite  sweet 
creature  we  rescued  from  villains  at  Kenil- 
worth?"  inquired  Sir  Reginald. 

"Indeed  do  I,  marvellously  well,"  replied 
Sir  Valentine,  somewhat  wondering  his 
friend  should  begin  ti>  speak  of  the  very  sub- 
ject of  his  own  thoughts. 

"  I  tell  thee.  Sir  Valentine,"  continued  the 
other,  witli  exceeding  earnestness,  "  all  tlie 
whilst  I  was  at  court,  even  amongst  the 
choicest  damsels  of  the  chiefcst  families  of 
the  kingdom,  1  ccuild  think  of  none  other  but 
her  ;  for  each  did  but  remind  me  of  her  in- 
luiile  superiority  in  all  loveablo  delectable 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


137 


graces."  His  young  companion  walked  on, 
listening  with  a  pale  cheek  and  a  throbbing 
heart.  '•  The  first  thing  I  did  on  approach- 
this  neighborhood,"  continued  the  other, 
"  was  to  hie  me  to  Charlcote,  in  the  hope  of 
delighting  mine  eyes  with  a  glimpse  of  her 
fair  beauty  once  again.  I  wa.s  so  fortunate 
as  to  meet  with  her.  Slie  appeared  lovelier 
than  ever,  and  a  sort  of  sadness  was  mani- 
fest in  her  dainty  fair  countenance,  that 
made  its  attractiveness  infinitely  more  touch- 
ing. She  seemed  glad  to  see  me.  I  assure 
thee  I  hngered  in  her  delightsome  society, 
utterly  incapable  of  tearing  myself  away. 
Never  met  I  a  maiden  of  such  moving 
graces,  or  of  such  dehcate  behavior.  In 
brief,  I  love  her — as  absolutely  as  ever  fond 
heart  can."  Sir  Valentine  felt  as  though  he 
could  scarce  breathe. 

"  I  have  sought  thee  here  to  tell  thee  of 
this,"  added  Sir  Reginald,  "  knowing  thou 
art  the  truest  friend  that  ever  knight  had. 
And  I  would  make  such  trial  of  thy  friend- 
ship as  I  would  of  none  other  living.  My 
entire  happiness  is  in  the  keeping  of  this 
most  divine  creature ;  and  I  would  give 
worlds  could  I  sigh  at  her  feet,  or  bask  in 
her  smiles  as  often  as  I  desire.  But  I  have 
plighted  my  word  to  my  honorable  good 
friend,  that  notable  brave  gentleman,  Sir 
Philip  Sydney,  to  accompany  him  in  a  cer- 
tain expedition  he  is  preparing  for,  and 
therefore  it  must  needs  be  1  can  have  but 
small  occasion  for  carrying  on  my  suit.  Be- 
ing in  this  strait,  and  knowing  of  thy  ex- 
treme trust-worthiness,  and  exceeding  love 
for  me,  I  would  obtain  at  thy  ban  is  such 
true  service,  as  for  thee  to  seek  out  my 
soul's  idol  on  all  warrantable  occasions,  and 
with  such  affectionate  rhetoric  as  thou  canst 
master  for  so  loving  a  purpose,  urge  her  on 
my  behalf.  Give  her  no  cause  to  mark  my 
absence.  Press  her  with  passionate  impor- 
tunities. Let  thy  talk  be  ever  of  my  devo- 
tion to  her,  and  thy  manner  of  such  a  sort 
as  should  convince  her  of  its  earnestness." 

Sir  Valentine  essayed  to  speak,  but  the 
words  died  unuttered  in  his  throat. 

"  Can  I  have  such  important  service  ren- 
dered me  ?"  inquired  Sir  Reginald.  "  But 
I  am  assured  I  cannot  appeal  to  so  true  a 
friend  unprofitably.  I  know  enough  of  that 
honorable  worthy  nature  to  convince  me  no- 
thing will  be  left  undone  that  these  circum- 
stances require." 

Sir  Valentine  managed  at  last  to  utter  his 
consent  to  do  what  was  required  of  him-',  and 
then  fearful  he  should  betray  his  own  feel- 
ings if  he  stopped  where  he  was,  he  made 
an  excuse  for  hurrying  away,  wrung  his 
friend's  hand  more  affectionately  than  ever 


!  he  had  done,  though  at  that  moment  his  own 
I  heart  was  more  forcibly  wrung  by  the  fierce 
1  trial   he  was   undergoing,  and  left  him  to 

school  his  nature  into  tlie  doing  of  what  he 

had  undertaken. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Come,  my  Celia,  let  us  prove. 
Whilst  we  can  the  joys  of  love  ! 
Time  will  not  be  ours  forever  : 
He  at  length  our  good  will  sever. 
Spend  not  then  his  gifts  in  vain 
Suns  that  set  may  rise  again  ; 
iBut  if  once  we  lose  this  light, 
'Tis  with  us  perpetual  night. 

Ben  JoNsoif. 
Oh  with  that 
I  wish  to  breathe  my  last ;  upon  thy  lips 
Those  equal  twins  of  comeliness,  I  seal 
The  testament  of  honorable  vows. 
Whoever  be  that  man  that  shall  unkiss 
The  sacred  print  next,  may  he  prove  more  thrifty 
In  this  world's  just  applause,  not  more  desertful. 

FOKD. 

The  behavior  of  the  youthful  Shakspeare 
to  the  yeoman's  blooming  daughter,  might, 
perchance,  be  to  the  marvel  of  some  who 
have  it  in  their  remembrance  the  infinite 
delicacy  and  retiringness  of  his  conduct  to- 
wards the  beautiful  foundling  at  Charlcote, 
but  these  things  are  to  be  considered — to 
wit,  that  he  had  in  a  manner  outlived  that 
age  of  boyish  shyness  which  so  manifestly 
appeared  in  him,  and  with  it  that  mere  ideal 
adoration  with  which  it  was  accompanied. 
His  love  for  Mabel  was  but  a  sentiment, 
born  in  the  mind  and  dying  there,  yet  her- 
alding the  coming  of  another  love,  partaking 
more  of  passion  than  of  sentiment,  engross- 
ing both  the  heart  and  the  mind  in  all  their 
entireness,  and  showing  such  a  vigorous  ex- 
istence as  plainly  proved  how  firm  a  hold  it 
had  on  the  powerfuUest  energies  of  life. 
Anne  Hathaway  was  altogether  different 
from  the  foundling.  Her  rich  rosy  com- 
plexion— her  careless  free  glance,  and  her 
eloquent  soft  smiles  expressed  quite  another 
character.  Her  manners  were  equally  op- 
posite— being  of  that  heedless  enticing  sort, 
which  draweth  all  eyes  admiringly,  and  soon 
suns  them  into  a  social  delightsome  warmth. 
But  this  was  nothing  more  than  the  outward 
display  of  a  natural  fond  temperament, 
where  the  heart  was  overflowing  with  gen- 
erous sweet  feelings,  and  was  anxious  for 
an  object  on  whom  to  display  its  exceeding 
bountifulness.  Such  a  one,  clothed  with 
such  resistless  fascinations,  was  sure  to 


138 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


produce  an  extraordinary  impression  on  tlie 
ardent  nature  of  the  young  poet.  Her  ap- 
proving glance — her  seductive  smile — or 
lier  slightest  touch,  filled  him  with  a  sense 
of  joyousness  no  language  could  express. 

These  were  unequivocal  signs  of  love  in 
its  riper  stage.  At  this  period  of  youth  the 
imprisoned  aflbctions  burst  from  their  womb, 
and  start  into  life  with  impulses  that  will 
allow  of  no  controlling.  Ever}'thing  wear- 
eth  a  new  aspect.  A  rosier  light  shines 
througli  the  atmosphere.  A  wanner  breath 
is  felt  upon  the  breeze.  A  multitude  of  new 
feelings  seem  struggling  in  the  breast  to 
have  free  development,  and  in  fact  the  whole 
humanity  appcarcth  to  take  on  itself  a  char- 
acter perfectly  distinct  from  that  which  it 
had  previously  worn.  Nature  now  whis- 
peretli  in  the  ear  a  secret  unthought  of 
hitherto ;  and  all  the  man  riseth  at  the  intel- 
ligence, filled  with  a  mysterious  influence — 
a  sense  of  happiness  and  power — and  a 
knowledge  of  that  sweet  philosophy  whose 
right  use  maketh  a  very  Eden  of  delight  to 
the  Adams  and  Eves  of  every  passing  gen- 
eration. 

Anne  Hathaway  received  the  advances 
of  her  youthful  lover  so  weicomingly,  that 
he  lacked  nothing  of  inducement  to  proceed. 
Indeed,  hers  was  not  a  disposition  to  with- 
stand the  passionate  ardor  of  so  prepossess- 
ing a  wooer,  and  from  the  first  hour  of  their 
meeting,  she  had  regarded  him  with  most 
favorable  sentiments.  It  was  sometime  af- 
ter the  May-day  festival  that  the  blooming 
Anne,  as  was  customary  with  her,  sat  ply- 
ing of  her  wheel  in  her  old  place,  whilst  her 
youthful  lover,  as  was  usual  with  him,  had 
drawn  a  scat  close  to  hers,  having  his  arm 
resting  on  the  back  of  her  chair.  Some  ex- 
quisite speeches  and  passionate  admiring 
looks  from  him,  were  followed  by  a  suffi- 
ciency of  sprightly  answers  and  bright  pro- 
voking glances  from  her.  Thus  had  their 
mutual  passion  advanced  and  no  further, 
but  it  was  soon  to  show  more  endearing  signs. 

"  Canst  aflfect  verses,  Anne  ?"  inquired 
the  young  poet. 

"  Ay,  a  sweet  love  song,  of  all  things," 
replied  the  village  beauty,  in  her  ordinary 
free-hearted  way. 

"  Wouldst  approve  of  them  any  the  more 
if  thou  wert  their  subject  ?"  asked  ho. 

"Should  I  not?"  answered  she,  archly. 
"Marry,  1  nmst  needs  think  them  the  finest 
sweetest  verses  ever  writ." 

"  I  have  essayed  the  writing  of  some," 
continued  her  yf)uthful  lover  in  a  more  ten- 
der maimer.  "  Hut  I  am  r.ather  out  of  heart 
I  have  not  produced  a  poem  more  worthy  of 
thy  exceeding  merit." 


"  Hast,  indeed,  written  something  of  me  ?" 
exclaimed  the  yeoman's  buxom  daughter, 
glancing  at  him  a  look  of  infinite  curiosity 
and  pleasure.  "  O'  my  word,  now,  I  should 
be  right  glad  to  see  it." 

"  If  thou  wilt  promise  to  pardon  my  too 
great  boldness,  I  will  here  read  these,  my 
poor  verses,"  said  the  young  poet.  His 
companion  was  too  eager  to  know  what 
ccjuld  he  have  written  about  her,  to  care 
much  what  she  promised :  so,  whilst  she 
sent  her  wheel  round  very  diligently,  her 
youthful  lover  drew  a  paper  from  beneath 
his  doublet,  and  soon,  with  an  exquisite  im- 
passioned manner,  and  soft  mellow  voice — 
somewhat  tremulous  here  and  there — he 
commenced  reading  what  is  here  set  down. 

LOVE'S  ARGOSIE. 

"  Awhile  ago  I  passed  an  idle  life 

Like  as  a  leaf  that's  borne  upon  the  breeze  ; 

Thoughtless  of  love  as  lambkin  of  the  knife, 
Or  the  young  bird  of  hawk,  among  the  trees. 

I  knew  not,  thought  not,  cared  not  for  the  mor- 
row, 

And  took  unblessed  my  daily  joy  or  sorrow. 

I  saw  the  bounteous  hand  of  Nature  fling 
lier  princely  largess  over  each  green  place ; 

I  saw  the  blushes  of  the  tender  Spring 

Hiding  within  the  summer's  warm  embrace  ; 

I  saw  the  burthened  Autumn  fast  e.xpiring, 

And  Winter,  in  the  year's  grave,  make  a  cheer- 
ful firing. 

"  Yet  nil  the  time  was  I  as  blind  as  mole 

Who  digs  his  habitation  in  the  dark, 
Though  light  there  was,  it  fell  not  on  my  soul, 
A  fire  burned  bravely  that  showed  me  no 
spark  ; 
Whilst   all   owned   Nature's  spells,    I  saw  no 

charming, 
And  still  kept  cold  whilst  others  were  a  warm- 
ing. 

"  When  suddenly  my  eyes  threw  ope  their  doors 
And  sunny  looks  fiashed  in  their  fond  desires  ; 
The  chambers  of  my  heart  found  glowing  floors 
For  there  each  hearth  blazed  with  continual 
tires : 
I  saw  the  magic,  felt  the  bliss  'twas  bringing, 
And  knew  the  source   whence   these   delights 
were  springing. 

"  For  then  it  was  indiflerence  met  its  death, 
And  my  new  life  new    climates  seemed  to 
seek  ; 
The  sweet  south  flung  its  odors  from  thy  breath, 
And  the  warm  Fast  came  bluslung  o'er  thy 
cheek. 
Thysiniles  were  endless  Summer's  rosy  dances. 
And  the  soft  zone  shone  in  thy  torrid  jjlances, 

"  And  as  thy  wondrous  beauty  I  beheld, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


139 


A  thousaud  unknown  raptures  on  me  came  ; 
The  flood  of  lite  by  some  strange  power  im- 
pelled, 
Rushed  through  its  channels,  turned  to  liquid 
flame  ; 
And  then  with  me  there  seemed  such  blooming 

weather, 
As  though  all  seasons  showered  their  flowers 
together. 

"  And  as  I  basked  in  thy  subduing  gaze. 

And  caught  the  thrilling  spirit  of  thy  smile  ; 

I  marvelled  1  had  lived  so  many  days 
So  blind,  so  cold,  so  ignorant  the  while  ; 

'  Certes,'  quoth  I,  '  I've  been  in  far  off"  places, 

Else  had  1  sooner  known  such  moving  graces. 

"  Ay — in  strange  latitudes  and  unknown  waves, 
Having  no  compass,  aid  of  chart  denied, 

There  rose  before  me  mountains,  plains,  and 
caves. 
And  a  new  world  my  curious  vision  spied  : 

And  then  it  was  that  fair  country,  thy  beauty. 

Brought  me  to  anchor — a  most  welcome  duty. 

"  To  turn  discovery  to  best  account, 

I  studied  every  feature  of  the  land  ; 
I   scanned     where'er   the   highest   fruit  could 
mount, 
I  touched  the  tender  produce  of  thy  hand  ; 
And  every  where  such  heaps  of  sweets  were 

growing. 
No  place  on  earth  could  be  so  worth  the  know- 
ing. 

"  Then  having  this  bright  world  so  newly  found, 
And  learned  its  fitness  for  an  honest  home. 

Must  I  be  now  on  a  fresh  voyage  bound. 
Again  in  unknown  latitudes  to  roam  ? 

Oh  might  I  name  it,  hold  it,  own  it,  rather, 

And  from  its  spoil  a  matchless  fortune  gather  ! 

"  Dear  heart  I  sweet  life  !  most  admirable  fair 
saint ! 
To  thee  my  soul  its  fond  devotion  brings. 
Like  a  poor  pilgrim  weary,  worn,  and  faint 

To  taste  the  comfort  which  thy  beauty  brings : 
.Hear  how  thy  praise  all  excellence  excelleth  ! 
Hear  how  my  prayer  within  my  worship  dwel- 
leth  ! 

"  Believe  me  the  fond  charm  thou  dost  possess, 
j       Is  not  a  gift  meant  to  be  idly  used. 

But  a  kind  solace  that  should  come  to  bless 
j       That  heart  whose  blessings  thou  hast  not  re- 
1  fused. 

I  I  see  it  in  a  promise  and  a  token 
1  Of  flowery  bauds  that  never  can  be  broken. 

"  And  now  like  those  bold  mariners  of  ships, 
j       That  from  all  ports  do  take  their  merchan- 
1  dize 

I  My  bark  would  I  unlaid  upon  thy  lips. 


Which  awhile  since  I  freighted  at  thine  eyes. 
Yet  e'er  from  such  kind  port  my  sails  are  fad- 
ing, 
Doubt  not  I  bear  away  a  richer  lading. 

"  Bring  here  the  ivory  of  thy  fair  arms. 

And   lustrous    jewels    which    thine    eyelids 

hold. 

Bring  here  the  crowning  of  thy  store  of  charms. 

The  silky  treasures  which  thy  brows  enfold  ; 

Bring  here  the  luscious  fruits  thy  soft  cheek 

beareth. 
And  those  rare  pearls  and  rubies  thy  mouth 
weareth  .' 

"  But  that   which  doth   them  all   in   rareness 
beat — 
The  choicest    traffic    brought    from  loving 
isles — 
Bring  me  the  dainty  balm  and  odorous  sweet. 

That  fills  thy  tempting  treasury  of  smiles  : 
That  whilst  I'm  filled  with  beauty's  precious 

blisses. 
Thou  makest  me — an  argosie  of  kisses  !" 

It  was  scarce  possible  to  have  met  with  a 
prettier  sight  than  the  yeoman's  blooming 
daughter  listening  with  her  eyes  sparkling 
unutterable  pleasure,  as  the  young  poet  read 
to  her  her  tuneful  praises.  The  wheel  went 
round,  but  she  spoke  not  a  word.  Indeed 
she  would  not  hazard  so  much  as  a  syllable, 
fearful  she  might  by  it  lose  some  part  of 
those,  to  her,  exquisite  verses.  At  the  con- 
clusion, wherein  his  voice  sunk  to  a  tremu- 
lous soft  murmur,  he  lifted  his  gaze  from 
the  paper  to  the  flushed  countenance  of  his 
ftiir  companion,  and  received  a  glance 
he  could  not  fail  to  understand.  Upon  a 
sudden,  his  arm  fell  from  the  back  of  her 
chair,  and  encircled  her  girdle,  and — and — 
and  the  wheel  stopped  for  a  full  minute. 

"  Humph  !"  exclaimed  a  familiar  voice, 
close  at  hand,  and  starting  from  their  affec- 
tionate embrace,  they  beheld  John  Hatha- 
way with  that  peculiar  expression  peeping 
from  the  corners  of  his  eyes  and  mouth, 
which  marked  the  more  than  ordinary  plea- 
sure he  took  in  anything.  In  a  moment 
the  blushing  Anne  was  diligently  looking 
on  the  ground  for  something  she  had  never 
lost ;  and  her  youthful  lover,  in  quite  as 
rosy  a  confusion,  was  gallantly  assisting  her 
to  lind  it.  To  the  father's  sly  question  the 
daughter  answered  a  little  from  the  purpose  ^ 
and  as  for  the  young  poet  he  all  at  once  re- 
membered some  pressing  duty  that  called 
him  thence,  took  a  hurried  leave  of  his 
friend  the  yeoman,  who  was  evidently 
laughing  in  his  sleeve  the  whilst,  and  with 
a  quick  fond  glance,  repaid  with  interest,  to 


140 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


his  fair  mistress — whose  sprightliness  had 
somehow  forsaken  her — he  wended  his  way 
back  to  Stratford. 

Ill  very  truth,  he  was  in  far  too  happy  a 
Plato  to  have  stayed  whore  lie  was,  ancl  a 
third  person  by.  His  foehngs  were  in  a 
complete  tumult :  his  tboufjlits  in  a  deHcious 
confusion.  He  felt  as  if  he  could  have 
taken  the  whole  world  in  his  arms,  he  was 
en  such  friendly  terms  with  every  one.  He 
experienced  the  delightful  consciousness  of 
being  loved — to  him  a  new  and  rare  enjoy- 
ment— and  his  was  a  disposition  fitted  to  re- 
ceive it  with  a  sense  of  such  extreme  plea- 
sure as  humanity  liath  seldom  known. 
What  were  his  thoughts  when  he  could  get 
to  any  reasonable  thinking — or  his  feelings, 
when  he  returned  to  his  ordinary  sensations, 
I  cannot  take  upon  me  to  say  ;  but  all  point- 
ed to  one  subject,  and  rose  from  one  subject ; 
and  whether  ho  regarded  himself  or  the 
world  around  him.  it  cime  to  the  same  matter. 
To  him  everythino  was  Anne  Hathaway ; 
but  especially  all  wisdom,  goodness,  beauty, 
and  delight,  took  from  her  their  existence, 
and  gnve  to  her  their  qualities.  She  was,  in 
brief,  the  sun  round  which  the  rest  of  crea- 
tion must  needs  take  its  course.  In  this 
excitement  of  mind  and  heart  he  proceeded 
on  his  path,  only  brouoht  to  a  more  sober 
state  as  he  nearcd  home.  It  so  happened, 
at  the  outskirts  of  tiie  town,  his  attention 
was  forcibly  attracted  by  the  riotous  shout- 
ing of  a  crowd  round  the  horse  pond. 

"  Prithee  tell  me,  what  meaneth  this  huge 
disturbance  ?"  inquired  he  of  one  of  the 
knot  of  old  women,  who  beating  the  end  of 
her  stick  furiously  on  the  ground,  knocked 
together  her  pointed  nose,  and  chin,  as  she 
poked  her  heiid  towards  one,  and  then  to- 
wards another,  with  all  the  thorough  earn- 
estness of  a  confirmed  gossip. 

"  Meaneth  it  ?"  re[)lied  Mother  Flytrap, 
in  her  cracked  treble,  as  she  rested  her  two 
hands  ujion  her  stick,  and  thrust  her  ancient 
visage  close  to  the  face  of  the  querist.  "  By 
my  fackings,  it  meaneth  the  very  horriblest, 
infamousness  that  ever  was  seen  in  this 
mortal  world.  But  it's  what  we  must  all 
come  to." 

"  Ay,  marry — flesh  is  grass  !"  said  an- 
other old  beldame. 

•'But  I  have  my  doubts — I  have  my  doubts, 
gossip,"  mumbled  out  anotb.er  of  the  tribe  ; 
"  it  hath  been  credibly  said  strange  lights 
and  unchristian  noises  have  ap[)eared  in  her 
cottage;  and  I  did  myself  see,  standing  at 
her  door,  the  very  broom  some  do  say  she 
flies  through  the  air  upon." 

"  Odds  codlings,  hast  though,  indeed  !"  in- 


quired Mother  Flytrap,  with  something  like 
horror  muffled  up  in  the  hues  of  her  parch- 
ment skin.  "Well,  if  she  be  a  witch,  she 
must  either  drown  or  swim — that's  one  com- 
fort." 

"  Who's  a  wtch  ?"  asked  William  Shak- 
speare,  who  had  turned  from  one  to  the 
other  of  his  companions,  in  a  vain  hope  of 
getting  the  intelligence  he  required. 

"  God's  precious  !  who  but  Nurse  Cicely, 
that  hath  bewitched  Farmer  Clod  pole's 
cows,"  re[)lied  one  of  the  women ;  and 
scarce  were  the  words  out  of  her  mouth, 
when  the  young  poet,  with  an  infinite  small 
show  of  gallantry,  pushed  his  way  tlirough 
them,  and  rushed  with  all  his  force  into  tlie 
crowd.  The  outcries  he  heard  seemed  to 
him  the  yells  of  savage  bea.sLs  eager  for 
blood.  Shouts  of  "  In  with  her  !" — '•  Drown 
the  old  witch  !"  and  all  sorts  of  oaths  and 
ribald  expressions  came  to  his  ears,  with  the 
half-choked  screaming  of  their  victim.  He 
thrust  himself  forward,  pushing  the  crowd 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  till  he  stood  upon 
the  brirdv  of  the  pond  ;  and  just  beheld  his 
faithful  old  nurse  emerging  from  the  water, 
gasping  for  breath,  while  some  dozen  or  so 
of  rude  ploughboys,  butchers,  and  the  like 
characters,  kept  encouraging  one  another  in 
helping  to  drown  the  poor  creature.  With- 
out a  word  said,  William  Shakspeare  sprung 
upon  the  busiest  of  the  lot,  and  tumbled  him 
into  the  pond,  evidently  to  the  exceeding 
pleasure  of  the  majority  of  the  spectators. 
Perchance,  his  companions  would  have  re- 
sented this,  but  directly  young  Shakspeare 
made  his  appearance,  a  throng  of  his  old 
associates  hurried  from  all  j)arts  of  the 
crowd,  and  made  a  simultaneous  rush  upon 
the  tormentors  of  the  poor  nurse,  by  which 
help,  divers  of  them  were  presently  sent 
floundering  alongside  of  their  fellow,  the 
which  the  lookers  on  seemed  to  enjoy  alwve 
all  things. 

Whilst  Humphrey,  now  growing  to  be 
monstrous  valiant.  Green,  Burbage,  Hem- 
ings,  and  Condell  were,  with  others  of  a  like 
spirit,  putting  to  flight  such  of  the  lewd 
villains  as  seemed  inclined  to  stand  out  upon 
the  matter,  William  Shakspeare  carefully 
drew  Nunse  Cicely  out  of  the  pond,  untied 
her  bonds,  and  bore  her,  all  dripping  as  she 
was,  to  her  own  cottage,  where,  with  the 
assistance  of  some  humane  neighbors,  he  at 
last  succeeded  in  rescuing  her  from  tlie 
death  wjth  which  she  hatl  been  threatened. 
The  gratitude  of  the  poor  creature  was  be- 
yond all  conceiving  ;  and  at  fist  the  object 
of  it  felt  obliged  to  take  himself  out  of  he;ir- 


THE  VOjT.I  Ox^  SIIAKSPEARE. 


141 


Ing  of  lior  earnest  prodigal  thankfulnoss  and 
praise. 

Among  the  observers  of  tlie  scene  just  de- 
Bcribed,  regarding  the  chief  personage  in  it 
with  more  intentness  than  any  tiiere,  was  a 
somewhat  crabbed'looking  man,  meanly  clad, 
who,  from  beside  a  tree  a  little  above  the 
pond,  had  witnessed  the  v.'holo  transaction. 
When  the  woman  was  rescued,  he  followed 
her  deliverer  at  some  distance,  accosting 
none,  and  replying  to  such  as  were  hardy 
enough  to  speak  to  iiim,  in  so  rough  unman- 
nerly a  manner  few  sought  acquaintance 
with  him.  Whilst  William  Shakspeare  was 
in  the  cottage,  this  person  loitered  at  a  Uttle 
way  from  it,  occasionally  leaning  on  his 
staff,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground — then 
glancing  at  the  cottage-door,  and  strolling 
leisurely  about  without  losing  sight  of  it. 

As  the  young  poet  was  hastening  from  his 
old  nurse's  dwelling,  in  a  famous  pleasure 
with  the  result  of  his  exertions,  he  heard 
some  one  close  at  his  heels.  Presently,  a 
hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and  turn- 
ing round,  he  beheld  John  a  Combe,  the 
usurer.  He  had  long  been  familiar  with  his 
person,  having  met  with  him  before  fre- 
quently, and  had  imbibed  a  respect  for  his 
character  from  the  favorable  opinions  of  him 
expressed  by  his  parents.  Such  portion  of 
his  history  as  was  known  he  had  been  made 
acquainted  with  from  many  sources,  but  the 
mystery  which  had  enveloped  him  since  his 
extraordinary  change,  he  never  had  acquired 
any  more  knowledge  of  than  the  rest  of  his 
townsfolk. 

"Dost  shrink  from  me,  boy?"  inquired 
John  a  Combe,  in  a  sharp  thick  voice,  as  he 
noticed  a  sudden  start  of  surprise  in  the 
youth  when  he  recognized  the  usurer.  "  Art 
ashamed  of  being  seen  with  Old  Ten  in  the 
Hundred  ?  Wouldst  desire  no  acquain- 
tance with  one  whose  heart  clingeth  to  his 
gold,  and  sliutteth  his  soul  against  all  sym- 
pathy with  humanity  ?" 

"  I  think  not  of  you  in  that  way,  Master 
Combe,  believe  me,"  replied  his  young  com- 
panion, with  his  usual  gentle  courtesy. 

"  Then  thou  art  a  fool,  Will  Shakspeare  !" 
gruffly  exclaimed  the  other ;  heed  thou  the 
general  voice.  Ask  of  whomsoever  thou 
wilt  concerning  of  John  a  Combe,  the  usurer. 
Will  they  not  tell  thee  he  is  a  very  heartless 
tyrant,  who  liveth  upon  the  widow's  sighs 
and  tlie  ori)han's  tears, — 'who  grinds  the 
poor  man's  bones,  and  drinks  the  prodigal's 
blood  ?  Do  they  not  swear  in  the  very 
movingest  execrations  he  is  a  persecuting 
Trelentless  enemy  to  all  his  race,  who  careth 
only  to  set  baits  for  their  carcases,  and 
when  he  hath  got  them  in  his  toils,  showeth 


I  them  no  more  mercy  than  a  hungry  wolf?" 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  things,"  replied 
William  Shakspeare.  "  Indeed,  I  have  known 
divers  speak  of  you  as  having  shown  such 
honorable  good  qualities  as  entitled  you  to 
the  love  of  all  honest  men." 

"  Then  were  they  greater  fools  than  thou 
art,"  sharply  exclaimed  John  a  Combe,  "  I 
tell  thee  I  am  such  a  one.  I  lind  my  hap- 
piness in  the  misery  of  others.  I  live  when 
my  fellows  die.  My  heart  is  but  a  pedestal 
that  carryeth  a  golden  image,  at  which  I 
force  all  the  children  of  want  to  bow  them- 
selves down,  and  then  trample  on  their  necks 
to  make  me  sport." 

"  In  very  truth,  I  can  believe  notliing  of  it, 
worthy  sir,"  observed  his  young  companion. 
"  Methinks  too,  what  you  have  said  is  so  op- 
posite to  what  I  have  heard  from  the  credi- 
blcst  testimony  you  have  done,  that  it  is  too 
unnatural  lo  be  true.  Was  it  not  Master 
Combe,  who  spent  his  substance  freely  to 
better  the  condition  of  his  poorer  neighbors  ? 
Was  it  not  Master  Combe,  who  held  his  life 
as  at  a  pin's  fee,  to  guard  his  fellow  creatures 
Irom  the  destroying  pestilence  ?" 

"  Ay,  I  was  once  of  that  monstrovis  folly," 
said  the  usurer  with  great  bitterness ;  "  I 
carried  wine  in  a  sieve — only  to  be  spilled 
upon  barren  ground.  What  have  I  learned 
by  this  prodigal  expenditure  and  silly  pains- 
taking ?  The  notable  discovery  that  men 
are  knaves  and  women  wantons — that  friend- 
ship is  a  farce  and  love  a  cheat — that  ho- 
nesty is  a  fool  and  honor  a  bubble — and  that 
the  whole  world  hath  but  one  particular  in- 
fluence on  which  its  existence  holds — and 
that  is  utter  villainy." 

"  As  far  as  I  have  seen,  everything  of 
which  you  have  spoken  hath  an  entire  dif- 
ference," said  the  other.  "  That  there  may 
be  bad  men  amongst  the  good  I  cannot  take 
upon  me  to  deny  ;  but  that  this  should  con- 
demn all  mankind  for  vileness,  seemeth  ex- 
ceeding unjust.  According  to  what  I  have 
learned,  man  in  favorable  circumstances  will 
generally  be  found  possessed  of  the  best 
qualities  of  manhood  ;  and  such  is  the  natural 
excellence  of  his  nature  that  even  under  most 
unfit  occasions  the  proper  graces  of  humanity 
will  flourish  in  him  as  bravely  as  though  they 
had  the  most  tender  culture." 

"  Tut !"  cried  John  a  Combe,  impatiently  : 
"  'tis  the  opinion  of  such  as  have  gained  their 
knowledge  in  closets.  They  take  for  granted 
what  is  told  them,  and  their  poor  pride  will 
not  allow  of  their  crediting  anything  that  is 
to  the  prejudice  of  their  own  natures." 

"  And  as  for  woman,"  continued  the  young 
poet  more  earnestly,  "  'tis  hard  to  say  one 
word  against  a  creature  so  excellently  gifted. 


142 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


Methinks  she  would  make  praise  a  beggar,  j 
by  her  worthiness  taking;  all  he  hath  !"  | 

"  Ha  !  ha  !"  exclaimed  the  usurer  in  a  sort  , 
of  scornful  laugh.  "  Why,  boy,  thy  nature  j 
is  in  a  rare  humor  to  be  cozened.  Didst  ever 
hear  of  any  particular  villainy  out-viling-  all  ] 
things,  that  did  not  come  of  a  woman  ?  Who  j 
wasit  that  first  held  fellowship  with  a  serpent  | 
for  man's  undoing, — on  which  occasion  she 
showed  how  near  iier  disposition  was  to  the 
crawling  crafty  venom  of  her  chosen  asso- 
ciate. But  she  soon  outdid  the  reptile  in  his 
own  vocation  ;  and  now  her  craft  would 
laugh  the  fox  to  scorn,  and  her  guile  cheat 
the  serpent  to  his  face." 

"  I  should  he  loath  to  think  so  ill  of  her, 
having  had  most  convincing  proofs  of  her 
diftereiit  character,"'  said  the  youthful  Shaks- 
peare,  with  a  very  pleasurable  remembrance 
of  one  at  least  of  that  sex.     "  For  mine  own 
part  I  conceive  there  is  no  telling  all  her 
goodness  ;  but  I  do  remember  some  senten- 
ces in  wliich  it  doth  appear  to  me  her  true 
nature  is  most  admirably  painted,  and  they 
are  these  : — '  of  her  excellence  I  would  con- 
tent myself  with  asking — what  virtue  is  like 
to  a  woman's  ?     What  honesty  is  like  to  a 
woman's  ? — What  love — what    courage — 
what  truth — what  gencrousness — what  self- 
(Ipnifil — what  patience  under  affliction,  and 
forgiveness  for   every  wrong,    come  at  all 
nigh  unto  such  as  a    woman    shov.-eth  ?  | 
Believe  me,  the  man  who  cannot   honor  so  j 
truly  divine  a  creature,  is  an  ignorant  poor 
fellow,  whom  it  would  be  a  compliment  to 
style  a  fool, — or  an  ungrateful  mean  wretch, 
whom  charity  preventeth    me  from  calling 
a  villain  !'    Said  you  not  these  words.  Master 
Combe,  for  I  have  been  told  they  were  of  your 
own  speaking  ?" 

"  Doubtless !"  exclaimed  John  a  Combe 
with  a  sarcastic  emphasis.  "  I  was,  when  I 
uttered  such  words,  as  thou  art  now— moved 
by  a  strong  belief  in  the  existence  of  quali- 
ties with  which  my  wishes  were  more  fami- 
liar than  my  vision.  Appearances  looked 
fair,  and  I  took  for  granted  all  things  were 
what  they  seemed.  But  of  most  choice  mat- 
ters woman  seemed  infinitely  the  rarest. 
There  is  nought  I  would  not  have  said,  there 
is  nought  I  would  not  have  done,  to  prove  how 
far  above  ordinary  merit  I  thought  her  ex- 
ceeding excellence.  I  was  a  fool— a  poor, 
ignorant,  weak  fool,  who  will  readily  take 
brass  well  gilt  for  the  sterling  metal.  I  had 
to  learn  my  lesson,  and  in  good  time  it  was 
thoroughly  taught  me.  Experience  rubbed 
off  the  e.xternal  show  of  worth  that  had  chea- 
ted mine  eyes  into  admiration  and  my  heart 
into  respect ;  and  the  base  stuff  in  all  its 
baseness  stood  manifestly  confessed  before 


me.  Woman !"  added  he  with  increasing 
bitterness,  "  go  search  the  stagnant  ditch  that 
fills  the  air  with  petilential  jx)ison — where 
toads  and  snakes  fester  among  rotting  weeds, 
and  make  a  reeking  mass  of  shme  and  filth 
around  them, — I  tell  thee,  boy,  nothing  of  all 
that  vileness  approacheth  to  the  baseness  of 
her  disposition.  Woman  !  Siie  is  an  outrage 
upon  nature,  and  a  libel  upon  humanity. — A 
fair  temptation  that  endetli  in  most  foul  dis- 
appointment.— The  ver\'  apples  on  the  shores 
of  the  dead  sea,  that  are  all  blooming  with- 
out and  all  rottenness  within — a  thing  that 
hath  never  been  truly  described  save  under 
those  shapes  believed  in  a  past  religion,  whose 
features  were  human,  and  whose  person 
bestial.  Woman  !  She  is  the  mother  of  in- 
famy, ready  to  play  the  wanton  with  all  the 
vices,  and  fill  the  world  with  a  fruitful  pro- 
geny of  crimes.  She  is  the  cozener  of  hon- 
esty— the  mocker)'  of  goodness — a  substan- 
tial deceit — a  living  lie  !"'  _ 

"  I  pray  you  pardon  me,"  said  his  young 
companion  ;  "  these  are  most  intolerable  ac- 
cusations, and  no  warrant  for  them  as  I  can 
see." 

"  Warrant !"  cried  the  usurer,  now  with 
his  whole  frame  trembling  with  excitement  ; 
"  I  have  had  such  warrant — such  damnable 
warrant,  as  leaveth  me  not  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  on  the  matter.  I  have  heard — I  have 
seen — I  have  felt !"  continued  he  grasping 
the  shoulder  of  the  youth  convulsively,  then 
seeming  to  make  a  mighty  effort  to  conquer 
his  emotions,  which  for  a  moment  appeared 
almost  to  choke  him,  he  added  in  a  calmer 
voice — "  But  it  matters  not.  Perchance  thou 
wilt  have  the  wit  to  discover  all  that  I  would 
have  said.  I  am  in  no  mind  to  let  the  gossips 
of  the  town  meddle  with  my  secrets.  I  hke 
not  they  should  say  '  poor  John  a  Combe !' 
for  I  care  not  to  have  their  pity.  Say  not  to 
any  thou  hast  spoke  to  me  on  such  a  subject, 
and  when  thou  hast  a  mind  to  pass  an  hour 
with  Ten  in  the  Hundred  come  to  my  dwel- 
ling -,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  thee,  which  I 
would  say  of  no  other  person.  Thou  art  the 
son  of  an  honest  man,  and  I  have  seen  signs 
in  thee  that  prove  thou  art  worthy  of  thy 
father."  Saying  these  words,  John  a  Combe 
hastily  took  his  departure  down  a  turning  in 
tlie  street,  leaving  William  Shakspeare  mar- 
velling hugely  at  what  had  passed  between 
them. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


143 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you, 
Seek  to  fly,  it  will  pursue  ; 

Lo  court  a  mistress,  she  denies  you. 
Let  her  alone  she  will  court  you. 

Ben  .Tonson. 

"  And  now  I  dare  say,"  said  Sir  Rohert, 
"  that  Sir  Launcelot,  though  there  thou  liest, 
ihou  wert  never  matched  of  none  earthly 
knight's  hands.  And  thou  wert  the  curtiest 
knight  that  ever  beare  shield.  And  thou  wert 
the  truest  friend  to  thy  lover  that  ever  bestrod 
horse.  And  thou  wert  the  truest  lover  of  a 
sinful  man  that  ever  loved  woman.  And  thou 
wert  the  kindest  man  that  ever  stroke  with 
sword.  And  thou  wert  the  goodliest  person 
that  ever  came  among  prosse  of  knights.  And 
thou  wert  the  meekest  and  the  gentlest  that 
ever  eat  in  hall  among  ladies." 

A  book  of  the  noble  historyes  of  Kings  Ar- 
thur, and  of  certeyn  of  his  knightcs. 

Sir  Valentine  found  be  had  undertaken 
a  most  hard  duty.  The  more  he  essayed  to 
struggle  with  his  own  inclinations,  the  more 
strongly  they  rose  against  such  usage.  He 
tried  to  preach  himself  into  a  cheerful  acqui- 
escence with  the  obligation  imposed  upon 
him,  from  every  te.xt  of  honor,  friendship, 
and  chivalry,  with  which  he  was  acquainted, 
but  he  found  nature  rather  an  unwilling  con- 
vert, as  she  is  at  all  time  when  her  ftiith 
already  resteth  upon  the  religion  of  love. 
Nevertheless,  he  determined  to  do  Sir  Regi- 
nald the  promised  service,  however  difficult 
of  accomplishment  it  miglit  be.  In  very 
truth  he  was  one  of  those  rare  instances  of 
friendship  that  act  up  to  the  character  they 
profess.  In  numberless  cases  there  are  per- 
sons calling  themselves  friends,  who  are 
friends  only  to  themselves.  They  are  ready 
enough  to  take  the  name,  but  shrink  from  a 
proper  performance  of  the  character.  Friend- 
ship in  its  honorablest  state  is  a  continual 
self-sacritice  on  the  altar  of  social  feeling, 
combined  with  a  devotion  which  ever  incll- 
neth  to  e.xalt  the  object  of  its  regard  above 
all  humanity.  A  true  friend  alloweth  him- 
self as  it  were  to  be  the  shadow  of  another's 
merit,  attending  on  all  his  wants,  hopes,  and 
pleasures,  and  ever  keeping  of  himself  in  the 
back  ground  when  he  is  like  to  interfere  with 
his  happiness.  And  yet  there  have  been 
such  despicable  mean  spirits  who  would  hide 
their  contemptibleness  under  so  fair  a  cloak. 
They  profess  friendship  but  they  act  selfish- 
ness. Nay,  to  such  a  pitch  do  they  debase 
themselves,  that  they  would  behold  unfeel- 
ingly him  they  call  their  friend  pining  away 
his  heart  for  some  long  expected  happiness, 
and  basely  rob  laim  of  it  when  it  required  but 


I  their  assistance  to  insure  it  to  his  glad  posses- 
I  sion. 

The  young  knight  was  of  a  far  different 
sort.  Even  witii  so  powerful  a  competitor 
as  love,  he  would  give  himself  entirely  to 
friendship.  He  knew  that  the  assistance  he 
had  promised  to  render  his  friend  would  cost 
him  his  own  happiness,  but  he  could  not  for 
a  moment  tolerate  the  idea  of  building  his 
enjoyment  with  the  materials  of  his  friend's 
felicity.  He  believed  that  if  Sir  Reginald 
knew  what  were  his  feelings  towards  the 
object  of  their  mutual  affection,  he  would  on 
the  instant  resign  his  pretensions,  that  his 
friend's  hopes  might  not  be  disappointed  ; 
and  therefore  the  young  knight  was  the 
more  resolute  in  fulfilling  the  wishes  of  his 
faithful  companion,  and  as  an  important  step 
towards  the  consummation,  kept  the  secret  of 
his  own  love  locked  up  closely  in  his  breast. 
He  heard  Sir  Reginald  again  express  his 
desires,  and  again  did  he  declare  his  readi- 
ness to  assist  in  their  realization.  He  saw 
his  friend  depart  to  join  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
and  experienced  an  exquisite  satisfaction  in 
knowing  that  the  other  had  left  him  without 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  his  own  true  feel- 
ings. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Sir  Valentine  strove 
to  perform  his  task.  He  had  seen  but  little 
of  Mabel  for  a  long  time  pa.st,  for  she  scarce 
ever  ventured  alone  any  distance  from  the 
house,  fearing  she  might  be  again  carried 
off  as  she  had  been  before  ;  and  this  accoun- 
ted for  her  not  having  been  seen  for  so  long 
a  period  by  the  youthful  Shakspeare.  At 
last  the  young  knight  contrived  to  speak  with 
her,  and  his  entreaties  for  her  private  com- 
pany, to  acquaint  her  with  a  matter  of  some 
importance  it  was  necessary  she  should  know, 
she  named  a  spot  in  the  park  where  she  would 
meet  him  that  evening  after  dusk.  And 
there  she  attended  true  to  her  appointment. 
Sir  Valentine  as  he  gazed  uf)on  her  admir- 
able beauty,  felt  that  he  had  much  to  per- 
form, but  he  tried  all  he  could  to  stifle  his 
feelings,  and  think  of  no  other  thing  save 
the  advancement  of  his  friend's  wishes. 
Alack  !  he  was  setting  about  a  most  peri- 
lous task.  To  play  the  suitor  of  an  exqui- 
site fair  creature  as  proxy  for  another, 
methinks  for  one  of  his  youth  and  disposition 
was  great  temptation  ;  but  having  already 
loved  her  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  first  fond 
affection,  now  to  woo  her  merely  as  the 
representative  of  his  friend,  looks  to  be  a 
thing  out  of  the  course  of  nature. 

"  Methinks  this  friend  of  yours  must  need 
have  taken  entire  possession  of  your 
thoughts,"  observed  Mabel,  with  a  smile,  up- 
on finding  that  at  everj'  interview  the  young 


144 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


knight  could  say  nought  but  praise  of  Sir 
Reginald.  "  I  cannot  get  you  to  talk  of  any 
other  thing." 

"  Indeed,  so  gallant  a  gentleman  and  so 
perfect  a  knight  doth  not  exist,"  replied  Sir 
Valentine.  "  I  have  seen  him,  lady,  in  the 
thickest  of  the  field,  bearing  liimsclf  so 
bravely  as  was  the  marvel  of  both  foes  and 
friends." 

"  And  were  yon  in  tliat  battle  ?"  inquired 
she,  with  a  singular  curiousness ;  "  I  pray 
you  tell  me  how  it  was  fought.  I  should 
like  much  to  hear  what  share  you  had  in  it. 
I  doubt  not  you  behaved  very  gallantly." 

"  I  kept  in  the  press  as  nigh  to  Sir  Regi- 
nald as  I  could,'"  continued  the  young  knight ; 
"  for  I  knew  that  much  honor  was  only  to 
1)0  reaped  where  he  led  the  way.  Truly  he 
is  a  knight  of  most  ajiproved  valor." 

"  I  cannot  doubt  it,  since  you  have  so  said," 
replied  Mabel,  impatiently.  "  But  I  beseech 
you  leave  all  speech  of  him,  and  take  total- 
ling me  of  your  own  knightly  achieve- 
ments." 

"  By  this  light,  lady,  I  am  nought  in  com- 
parison with  Sir  Reginald,"'  said  his  friend, 
earnestly :  '•  never  met  I  a  gentleman  so 
worthv  of  the  love  of  woman.  Indeed  I 
know  he  is  kindly  esteemed  of  many  noble 
dames  ;  yet  in  his  estimation  all  such  have 
been  but  indifferently  thought  of,  since  his 
knowledge  of  your  so  much  brighter  perfec- 
tions." 

"  Surely,  he  doth  great  wrong  to  those 
noble  dames  by  thinking  at  all  of  me,"  ob- 
served the  fair  foundUng. 

"  He  doth  consider  you  so  pre-eminent  in 
excellence,  language  cannot  express  his  ad- 
miration," added  Sir  Valentine. 

"  I  feel  bound  to  him  for  his  good  opinion," 
said  Mabel.  "  Yet  I  should  have  been  glad 
had  he  shown  more  discretion  than  in  be- 
stowing it  so  prodigally." 

"  The  love  of  so  noble  a  knight  ought  to 
be  regarded  as  a  most  costly  jewel,"  contin- 
ued the  young  knight.  "  I  cannot  think  so 
proud  a  gift  is  to  be  met  with." 

"Perchance  not,"  replied  his  companion, 
coldly.  "  Yet  I  cannot  say  it  hath  any  par- 
ticular attractions  in  my  eyes." 

Here  was  a  new  difficulty  to  be  overcome. 
The  lovely  object  of  his  friend's  attachment 
cared  not  to  bo  loved  by  him.  This  he  had 
not  calculated  upon.  Sir  Reginald's  happi- 
ness appeared  farther  from  his  possession 
than  Sir  Valentine  could  have  imagined. 
Nevertheless,  the  latter  was  not  to  be  daunted 
by  such  an  appeanince. 

Mabel  had  by  this  time  met  Sir  Valentine 
majiy  times,   almost  with   as  much  confi- 


dence as  she  had  known  at  their  first  inter- 
views, for  she  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  of 
her  noble  gallant  and  the  villains  his  asso- 
ciates, since  her  escape.     The  young  knight, 
at  his  earliest  convenience,  had  rode  to  the 
house  for  the  express  purpose  of  punishing 
the  traitor  for  his  intended  villainy,  when  he 
found  the  place  shut  up  close  and  deserted, 
and  none  could  tell  him  where  its  late  in- 
mates had  gone  ;  from  which  it  was  argued 
they  had  letl  that  part  of  the  country  out  of 
fear  tlieir   offences    had    been    discovered. 
Nevertheless, 4t  was  not  till  recently  the  poor 
foundling  could  hazard  herself  l.y  walking  in 
the  park,  as  she  had  used?  though,  to  make 
her  venturing  as  secure  as  possible,  Sir  Val- 
entine,    from     a     neighboring     eminence, 
watched,  on  a  fleet  steed,  her   coming  and 
returning.     In  truth,  the  chiefest   ])leasure 
she  had  was  meeting  this  gallant  gentleman ; 
and  she  could  think  of  no  evil   when  she 
found  him   leading  of  his  palfrey  by  the  bri- 
dle, walking  at  her  side  in  some  retired  part 
of  the  grounds  ;  or  having  tied  the  animal  to 
a  branch,  standing  by  her  under  the  shelter 
of  a  neighboring  tree,  entertaining  of  her 
with  his   choice  discourse.      Still   did    she 
listen  with  manifest  disrelish  to  whatever 
the  young  knight  reported  of  his  friend,  and 
the  more  admired  the  honorableness  of  the 
speaker,  without  caring  a  whit  for  the  object 
of  his  eulogy.     She  had  noticed  that  of  late 
such  tender  gallantries  as  he  had  been  ac- 
customed to  exhibit,  he  had  altogether  with- 
drawn, and  this  she  regarded  with  especial 
uneasiness.     He  was  always  repeating  his 
friend's  opinion  of  her,  and  ceased  to  say  one 
word  of  his  own  thoughts  on  that  subject ; 
and  this  behavior  in  him  pleased  her  not  at 
all.     She  often  considered  the  matter  very 
intently,  and  upon  coming  to  the  conclusion 
she  had  become  indifferent  to  him,  it  put  her 
into  a  great  discomfort.    It  hath  already  been 
said  she  had  some  pride  in  her — pride  in  its 
gracefullest  shape — and  at  such  instigation 
it  was  like  to  be  called  into  action  ;  but  if  it 
did  show  itself,  it  came  so  g;irmented  in  hu- 
mility, that  none  would   have  known  it  for 
what  it  was,  save  those  nobler  natures  with 
whom  such  appearances  are  familiar. 

"  I  am  much  grieved  at  noticing  of  this 
change  in  you,''  said  Mat)el  to  her  compan- 
ion, on  one  occasion.  "  If  you  think  of  me 
miwortbily,  methiuks  it  would  more  become 
your  gallant  disposition  to  tell  me  in  what  I 
am  amiss,  or  go  seek  the  company  of  some 
more  proper  person.  Should  I  have  lost 
your  esteem  I  cannot  be  fit  for  your  soci- 
ety." 

"O'  my  life,  I  do  esteem  you  above  all 
creatures !"  exclaimed  the   young    knight, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


145 


fel^'ently,  and  then,  as  if  recollecting  of  him- 
self, added,  "  for  one  that  is  so  liighly  es- 
teemed of  my  noble  friend,  cannot  but  be 
worthy  of  my  highest  estimation.*' 

"  Truly,  I  would  rather  you  rated  me  at 
your  own  judgment,  than  followed  the  ap- 
preciation of  any  other,"  observed  the  beau- 
tiful foundling,  ni  something  like  a  tone  of 
disappointment. 

"  Then,  be  assured,  I  rate  you  at  a  value 
immeasurably  beyond  all  other  estimation  !" 
earnestly  exclaimed  Sir  Valentine. 

"  Indeed !"  murmured  the  delighted  Ma- 
bel. 

"  I  mean— I  would  so  esteem  you,  were  I 
the  worthy  Sir  Reginald,"  added  the  young 
knight,  quickly. 

"  Ah,  me  !  it  is  ever  Sir  Reginald  with 
you  !"  cried  his  fair  companion,  in  evident 
dejectedness.  "  Against  Sir  Reginald's 
worthiness  I  could  not  say  one  word,  because 
you  have  affirmed  it ;  but  I  do  declare  to 
you,  for  the  hundredth  time,  I  heed  it  no 
more  than  if  I  never  heard  of  it !" 

"  But  surely  you  will  not  allow  his  honor- 
able regard  of  you  to  come  to  an  unprofitable 
ending  ?"  said  Sir  Valentine,  in  a  famous 
moving  manner.  "  0'  my  life,  he  deserveth 
not  his  fortunes  should  be  of  such  desperate 
issue.  I  beseech  you,  think  better  of  his 
princely  qualities.  I  pray  you,  have  proper 
consideration  of  liis  noble  character." 

"  'Tis  impossible  that  J  Can  regard  him  as 
he  is  desirous  I  should,"  observed  the  other. 

"And  why  not?"  inqliired  the  young 
knight.  "  Allow  me  at  least  the  privilege 
of  asking  your  reason  for  leaving  to  intoler- 
able wretchedness,  one  who  would  devote 
his  heart  to  your  service  ?" 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Mabel — sinking  of  her 
voice  almost  to  a  whisper — "  tell  him  I  re- 
gard another  so  entirely,  no  one  else  can 
have  footing  in  my  thoughts." 

"  Alack  !  what  ill  news  for  him  !"  ex- 
claimed Sir  Valentine.  "  But  think  me  not 
over  bold  at  asking  of  you,  is  he  so  worthy 
— is  he  so  noble — is  he  so  valiant  a  knight, 
and  so  true  a  gentleman,  as  my  poor  friend  ?" 

"  Ay,  that  is  he,  I  am  assured  !"  cried  the 
poor  foundling,  with  an  earnestness  that 
came  from  the  heart. 

"  Truly,  I  thought  not  such  another  ex- 
isted," replied  the  young  knight.  "  Indeed, 
1  would  willingly  go  any  distance  to  meet 
with  so  estimable  a  person." 

"  Methinks  you  need  not  go  far  to  find 
him,"  murmured  Mabel,  as  she  bent  her 
looks  so  upon  the  ground  her  long  eye-lashes 
appeared  perfectly  closed.  Sir  Valentine 
was  silent  for  some  few  minutes.  He  could 
not  mistake  the  meaning  of  her  words.  At 
10 


first  the  gratification  they  gave  him  was  be- 
yond conception  exquisite ;  but  then  fol- 
lowed the  reflection,  how  poorly  he  would  be 
playing  the  part  he  had  undertaken,  did  he 
attempt  in  any  way  to  take  advantage  of  the 
confession  she  had  just  made. 

"  In  all  honesty,  I  must  say,  this  person 
you  so  honor  hath  not  a  tithe  of  the  merit  of 
Sir  Reginald,"  said  the  young  knight,  in  a 
voice  that  faltered  somewhat.  "  Neither  in 
the  suitable  accomplishments  of  a  knight, 
nor  in  the  honorable  gifts  of  a  man,  can  he 
for  a  moment  be  compared  with  my  gallant 
friend.  I  beseech  you,  let  not  one  so  little 
worthy  of  your  regard,  receive  of  you  the 
estimation  which  should  only  belong  to  one 
so  truly  deserving  of  it  as  the  noble  Sir  Re- 
ginald." 

"  I  see !  I  see !"  exclaimed  the  poor 
foundling,  exceedingly  moved  by  this  speech 
of  her  companion.  "  You  cannot  disguise 
it  from  me,  strive  yon  ever  so.  I  have  fallen 
from  your  esteem.  I  have  lost  your  respect. 
Fare  you  well,  sweet  sir.  This  must  be  our 
last  meeting.  I  hold  your  noble  quahties 
too  deeply  in  my  reverence  to  allow  of  their 
standing  hazard  of  debasement  by  their  as- 
sociation with  any  unworthiness." 

In  vain  the  young  knight  gave  her  all 
manner  of  assurances  she  was  the  highest 
in  his  esteem — in  vain  he  sought  the  help  of 
entreaties  and  persuasions  she  would  stay 
and  hear  the  reason  of  his  so  behaving,  she 
seemed  bent  on  leaving  him  that  moment, 
with  a  full  determination  never  to  see  him 
more.  At  last,  however,  she  yielded  so  far 
as  to  promise  to  meet  him  the  next  evening 
at  the  same  place,  for  the  last  time,  and  then 
returned  home  in  a  greater  sadness  than  she 
had  ever  known.  From  that  hour  to  the 
hour  appointed  for  this  final  interview.  Sir 
Valentine  passed  in  considering  what  course 
he  should  adopt  under  these  trying  circum- 
stances. On  one  side  was  the  happiness  of 
his  absent  friend  entrusted  to  his  custody — 
on  the  other,  the  aiFections  of  a  most  beauti- 
ful sweet  creature  he  had  obtained  by  seek- 
ing of  her  society.  Honor  demanded  of  him 
he  should  not  do  his  friend  disadvantage, 
and  love  entreated  lie  would  not  abandon 
his  mistress  now  that  he  had  completely  won 
her  heart.  The  more  he  thought  the  less 
easy  seemed  his  duty,  for  he  saw  that  in 
each  case  if  he  attended  to  the  claim  of  one, 
it  would  destroy  every  hope  of  the  other. 

Mabel  was  true  to  her  appointment.  Sir 
Valentine  rode  up  to  her,  and  as  usual  tied 
his  horse  to  a  branch.  The  customary 
greetings  passed,  and  the  young  knight  ob- 
served that  his  fair  companion  looked  wond- 
rous pale  and  agitated. 


146 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  What  hath  so  moved  you  ?"  inquired  he, 
courteously. 

"  Hitherto  I  have  thought  myself  safe 
from  further  molestation  from  the  villains 
into  whose  power  I  once  fell,"  replied  Mabel. 
"  But  I  have  just  discovered  that  they  are 
again  pursuing  of  their  treacherous  inten- 
tions." 

"  I  pray  you  tell  me  where  I  may  find 
them,"  said  Sir  Valentine,  with  a  most  car- 
nest  eagerness.  "  I  promise  you  they  sliall 
molest  you  no  longer." 

"  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart !"  ex- 
claimed the  poor  foundling  fervently  ;  "  yet 
your  interference  can  be  of  no  avail  at  tiiis 
time.  The  very  traitor  who  bore  me  forci- 
bly from  this  park,  and  irom  whose  base 
grasp  you  previously  rescued  me  in  the  gar- 
dens of  Kenihvorth,  is  now  being  entertained 
by  Sir  Thomas  Lucy." 

"  Surely  Sir  Thomas  when  he  is  told  of 
his  baseness,  will  drive  him  from  his  house !" 
observed  the  young  knight. 

"  He  will  hear  of  nothing  against  him — 
nor  will  Dame  Lucy,"  answered  Mabel. 
"  They  say  I  am  mistaken,  though  I  could 
swear  to  him  among  a  thousand.  They 
will  have  it  he  is  a  person  of  worship,  whom 
they  have  known  many  years  ;  yet  I  am  con- 
vinced he  is  as  paltry  a  wretch  as  ever  dis- 
graced this  world." 

"  By  this  light,  dear  Mabel,  I  will  go  and 
make  him  confess  his  villainy  !"  cried  Sir 
Valentine,  moving,  as  if  he  would  to  the  house 
on  the  instant. 

"  I  beseech  you,  do  not,  sweet  sir,"  im- 
plored his  fair  companion,  as  she  caught 
hold  of  him  by  the  arm.  "  Ever  since  my 
escape  I  have  lived  a  most  unhappy  life, 
though  never  made  I  any  complaint, — for 
both  the  justice  and  tlic  dame,  will  have  it  I 
must  have  been  greatly  to  blame,  else  none 
would  have  laid  a  hand  on  me ;  and  say  wliat 
I  would,  I  cotdd  not  persuade  them  of  my 
innocency.  Of  all  persons  living,  they  look 
on  you  with  gi'eate.st  suspicion,  though  I  am 
certain  you  have  given  them  not  a  shadow 
of  cause,  and  your  appearance  at  this  or  any 
time  would  do  me  more  mischief  than  you 
can  imagine." 

"  But  it  cannot  be  tliat  you  are  to  be  left 
to  this  uncivil  treatment,"  exclaimed  the 
other  urgently.  "  I  will  not  allow  of  a 
tiling  so  monstrous.  Never  heard  I  such 
unjust,  vmnatural  usage.  It  must  not  be 
suffered." 

"  Indeed  it  must — for  there  is  no  honest 
way  of  escaping  from  it  as  I  can  see,"  an- 
swered the  poor  foundling.  "  Tlicre  is  some 
scheme  afoot,  I  feel  assured,  else  why  is  the 
caitiff  there — and  that  evil  is  intended  nie 


by  it,  I  have  had  more  than  sufBcient  proofs 
or  I  should  not  have  known  him  to  be  the 
villain  he  is  ;  but  as  yet  I  know  not  in  what 
shape  it  will  come.  I  am  in  terrible  appre- 
hension of  the  worst,  yet  I  see  not  how  I  can 
avoid  it  if  it  visit  me." 

'•  There  is  one  way,"  said  Sir  Valentine, 
whose  feelings  had  been  put  into  such  ex- 
treme excitement,  he  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  safety  of  tlie  fair  creature  who  seem- 
ed now  so  completely  thrown  on  him  for 
protection.  "  There  is  but  one  way,  dearest 
Mabel,"  repeated  he,  in  a  fonder  tone  than 
he  had  allowed  himself  to  use  a  long  while. 
"  If  you  have  that  regard  for  me  you  have 
expressed,  and  will  not  be  moved  to  favor 
my  friend's  suit,  I  beseech  you  honor  me  to 
that  extent  as  would  lead  you  to  trust  your 
happiness  to  my  keeping  ;  and  I  promise  you 
by  ihe  word  of  a  true  knight,  I  will  carry 
you  from  the  evils  with  which  you  are  threat- 
ened, to  the  sure  refuge  of  my  kinsman's 
house,  where  without  delay  I  will  give  my- 
self that  firm  title  to  be  your  protector  which 
can  only  be  gained  from  the  honorable  bonds 
of  marriage." 

"  Marriage  ?"  repeated  Mabel,  with  a 
more  unhappy  aspect  than  she  had  yet 
shown.  "  Surely,  you  have  been  all  this 
time  in  a  strange  ignorance  :  and  I  too — 
mcthinks  I  have  been  in  a  dream.  That 
word  hath  fully  wakened  me.  I  see  now, 
for  the  first  time,  how  I  have  been  dressing 
up  my  heart  in  shadows.  Oh,  how  great 
hath  been  my  folly  !  I  have  sought  what  I 
thought  an  innocent  pleasure  from  sources 
as  far  above  my  reach  as  are  the  stars. — 
Alas,  what  extreme  thoughtlessness  !  what 
marvellous  self-delusion  !" 

"  What  meaneth  this  ?"  inquired  the  young 
knight,  full  of  wonder  at  this  sudden  ciiange 
in  her. 

"  Know  you  not,  honorable  sir,  I  am  only 
a  poor  foundling  ?"  asked  Mabel  earnestly. 
"  Have  you  not  heard  I  am  a  poor  friendless 
creature,  picked  up  by  chance,  and  fostered 
by  charity  ?" 

"  In  very  trutli,  I  have  not,"  replied  Sir 
Valentine,  surprised  at  hearing  such  intelli- 
gence. 

"  Then  such  I  am,"  sdid  the  poor  found- 
ling. "  Nay,  I  am  so  poorly  off,  that  even 
the  very  name  I  bear  is  a  stranger's  gift. — 
Mother  or  father  have  I  never  known  ;  and 
such  is  my  mean  estate  that  I  cannot  claim 
kindred  with  any  of  ever  so  humble  a  sort. 
Oh,  would  yovi  had  known  of  this  before.  I 
am  much  to  blame  for  not  telling  you  of  it 
sooner ;  but  in  all  lH)nesty,  sweet  sir,  it  never 
entered  my  tliouglits." 

"  That  1  have  remained  ignorant  of  what 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


147 


yon  have  ju-st  told  me,  is  mine  own  fault 
only,"  replied  her  companion.  "  But  I  can- 
not think  of  drawing  back  from  my  engage- 
ments at  such  a  discovery.  Rich  or  poor, 
noble  or  simple,  you  are  the  same  admirable 
fair  creature  I  liave  so  long  loved,  and  that 
hath  honored  me  with  her  regard,  therefore 
if  you  will  trust  yourself  to  my  care,  doubt 
not  of  obtaining  at  least  the  respect  my  poor 
name  can  bestow  upon  you." 

"  It  cannot  be  !"  exclaimed  the  other  de- 
terminedly. "  I  could  never  do  you  so  nota- 
ble a  wrong  as  to  thrust  my  meanness  into 
your  honorable  family.  I  could  not  bear  you 
to  be  ashamed  of  me,  and  such  it  must  needs 
come  to  when  any  put  questions  to  you  of 
your  wife's  lineage.  Oh,  I  now  see  more 
and  more  how  ill  1  have  acted  in  seeking  of 
your  society.  I  enjoyed  the  present  moment, 
totally  regardless  of  the  bar  between  us,  that 
divided  our  fortunes  an  impassable  distance. 
I  beseech  you  to  forgive  me,  honorable  sir. 
As  quickly  as  you  can,  forget  that  one  of 
such  humble  fortunes  as  your  unhappy  Ma- 
bel ever  existed.  I  would  not  I  should  give 
you  a  moment's  uneasiness.  As  for  myself, 
whatever  may  be  my  wretched  fate,  or  how- 
ever degraded  my  condition,  I  shall  have  a 
happiness  in  my  thouglits  which  will  ever 
rank  me  with  the  most  worthy,  for  I  can  re- 
member I  have  attained  to  such  proud  eleva- 
tion as  to  be  the  love  of  the  noblest,  truest, 
and  most  perfect  gentleman  fond  heart  ever 
loved." 

"  Dearest !  sweetest  life !"  cried  Sir  Val- 
entine, passionately  clasping  her  in  his  em- 
braces. Mabel  for  a  few  moments  allowed 
herself  to  receive  his  endearments,  then  sud- 
denly tore  herself  from  his  arms,  looking  more 
pale  and  sad  than  before. 

'•  This  must  not  be,"  exclaimed  she,  with  a 
desperate  effort,  as  she  motioned  him  back. 
"  If  you  will  not  break  my  heart,  I  pray  you, 
— I  beseech  you,  honorable  sir,  grant  me  one 
request." 

"  Willingly,"  replied  the  young  knight,  for 
tears  were  on  her  eyelids,  and  she  looked  on 
him  so  movingly,  he  could  have  refused  her 
nothing. 

"  Never  approach  me  again,"  said  the  hap- 
less Mabel,  in  a  voice  almost  stifled  by  her 
feelings.  "  Nay,"  exclaimed  she,  with  more 
firmness,  as  she  noticed  he  appeared  about 
to  speak,  "  if  you  hold  me  in  any  respect — 
if  I  am  not  the  abject  thing  in  your  eyes,  I 
am  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  seek  not  to 
hinder  me  in  my  resolution.  I  must  see 
you  no  more.  I  cannot — will  not  allow  of 
another  meeting.  On  reflection,  your  own 
honorable  nature  will  assure  you  that  this  is 
as  much  for  my  welfare  as  your  own.    May 


the  sweetest  happiness  that  should  crown 
such  nobleness  as  yours  wait  upon  all  your 
doings.  Again,  and  for  the  last  time,  honor- 
able sir ! — fare  you  well !" 

"  Mabel !  dear,  sweet  Mabel !  I  beseech 
you  leave  me  not  thus  !  I  will  not  live  with- 
out you  !  I  cannot  love  another  !" 

"  Truly,  this  is  playing  a  friend's  part.  Sir 
Valentine !"  cried  Sir  Reginald,  rudely 
grasping  the  young  knight  by  the  arm,  as 
he  seemed  about  to  follow  the  retreating 
Mabel.  "  Why,  thou  pitiful  traitor  !  thou 
shame  to  knighthood — thou  dishonor  to 
friendship  !  What  demon  hath  tempted 
thee  to  such  villainous  doings  ?  By  my 
troth,  now,  had  I  not  seen  this  with  mine 
own  eyes,  I  would  never  have  believed  it." 

Sir  Valentine  was  a  little  confounded  at 
tlie  unexpected  appearance  of  his  friend  ; 
and  knowing  the  circumstances  in  which 
he  had  been  found,  he  was  sensible  they 
gave  color  to  Sir  Reginald's  accusation  he 
might  find  it  difficult  to  remove.  "  Indeed, 
I  am  but  little  to  blame.  Sir  Reginald,"  re- 
plied he  ;  *'  and  I  doubt  not  you  will  ac- 
knowledge it  readily,  when  you  have  heard 
all  I  have  to  say  to  you." 

"  Doubtless,"  observed  the  other,  in  a  man- 
ner somewhat  sarcastic  ;  "  I  go  on  a  distant 
journey,  placing  such  confidence  in  thy 
seeming  honorableness  as  to  entrust  thee 
with  llie  furthering  of  my  suit  to  my  mis- 
tress during  my  absence;  and  I  return  to 
find  thee  basely  seeking  to  rob  me  of  my 
happiness,  by  proffering  her  thine  own  af- 
fecuons  !  Truly,  thou  art  but  little  to 
blame  !" 

*'  I  do  assure  you.  Sir  Reginald " 

"  Fie,  sir !"  exclaimed  his  companion, 
roughly.  "  Thou  hast  a  rapier — methinks 
thou  shouldst  know  the  use  of  it.  Leave  thy 
tongue,  and  take  to  a  fitter  weapon."  And 
so  saying,  he  drew  his  own  from  its  scab- 
bard. 

'•By  all  that's  honorable  in  knighthood 

"  What  !"  exclaimed  the  other,  fiercely 
interrupting  him ;  "  wouldst  play  the  cow- 
ard as  well  as  the  villain !  wouldst  do  me 
such  foul  wrong  as  thou  hast  been  about, 
and  then  shrink  from  the  punishment  thou 
hast  so  justly  deserved  ?  O'  my  conscience, 
I  thought  not  so  mean  a  wretch  was  not  to  be 
found.  Draw,  caitiff,  without  a  word  more, 
or  I  will  beat  thee  like  a  dog." 

"  As  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  entertain 
this  quarrel  most  reluctantly,"  said  Sir  Va- 
lentine, drawing  out  his  rapier.  "  I  cannot 
see  that  I  have  WTonged  you  in  any  way  ; 
and  I  am  convinced  you  would  be  the  first 
to  say  OS,  knew  you  all  that  hath  happened." 


148 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SH/\KSPEARE. 


"  To  thy  defence,  sirrah  1"'  replied  Sir  Re- 
ginald, angrily.  "  I  am  not  to  be  cozened 
out  of  a  proper  vengeance."  And  at  this 
he  began  very  furiously  to  thrust  at  liis 
companion,  wtio  sought  only  to  defend  him- 
self, which  he  did  with  such  skill,  that  his 
opponent  got  more  enraged  every  moment, 
and  gave  him  all  manner  of  ill  words  ;  but 
still  Sir  Valentine  kept  on  his  defence,  and 
would  not  .^0  much  as  make  a  .single  pass 
at  his  friend.  This  continued  till  Sir  Re- 
ginald, pressing  on  with  desperate  haste, 
fell  on  his  opponent's  rapier  with  his  whole 
force. 

"  Alack,  what  have  I  done  !"  exclaimed 
the  young  knight,  as  be  beheld  his  faithful 
companion  in  arms  drop  bleeding  to  the 
ground.  "  Oh,  I  have  slain  the  noblest 
knight  that  ever  wielded  spear,  and  the 
truest  friend  that  ever  was  sincere  to  man. 
O'  my  life,  I  meant  to  do  you  no  hurt,  and  I 
can  say  with  tlio  same  honesty,  I  have  done 
you  no  offence.  Finding  he  got  no  answer, 
he  knelt  beside  his  wounded  lriend,and  took 
his  hand,  and  entreated  hira  very  movingly 
he  would  not  die  at  enmity  witli  him,  if  he 
was  as  dangerously  hurt  as  he  seemed. — 
Still  he  received  no  reply,  which  put  him 
almost  in  a  frenzy  by  assuring  him  he  had 
killed  him.  Finding,  however,  that  Sir  Re- 
ginald breathed,  he  very  carefully  took  him 
in  his  arms,  and  placed  him  so  that  he  might 
recline  against  the  bro(id  .-^tem  of  a  neigh- 
boring tree,  and  then  leaping  on  his  steed, 
he  started  off  at  the  top  of  his  speed  to  get 
the  necessary  assistance.  ^ 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

How  that  foolish  man, 
That  reads  the  story  of  a  woman's  face. 
And  dies  beUeving  it,  is  lost  for  ever: 
How  all  the  <.u>od  you  have  is  but  a  shadow, 
r  the  moming  with   you,  and  at  night   behind 

you, 
Past  and  forgotten.     How  your  vows  are  frosts 
Fast  for  a  night,  and  with  the  next  sun  gone: 
How  you  are,  bting  taken  all  together, 
A  mere  confusion,  and  so  dead  a  chaos, 
That  love  cannot  distinguish. 

Beaumo.nt  and  Fletcher. 
I  washed  an  Ethiope,  who,  for  recompense, 
Sully'd  my  name.     And  must  I  then  be  forced 
To  walk,  to  live,  thus  black  !     Must !  must ! 

Fie! 
He  that  can  bear  with  "  must,"  he  cannot  die, 

Marston. 

The  love  of  the  youthful  Shakspeare  for 
the  yeoman's  blooming  daughter  flourished 


the  more,  the  more  it  was  fed  by  her  sunny 
glances,  and  in  these,  he  basked  as  often  as 
he  could  find  opportunity  ;  but,  at  tins  peri- 
od, his  visits  to  the  cottage  were  mostly  late 
at  night,  when  her  father  and  the  children 
were  asleep  in  their  beds.  This  arose  from 
a  cause  which  must  here  be  described.  He 
was  now  growing  towards  man's  estate,  and 
it  often  occurred  to  him,  when  he  was  in  his 
own  little  chamber,  fitted  by  himself  with 
his  own  two  or  three  books  on  a  shelf — a 
chair  for  sitting — a  little  table  for  writing  on 
— and  a  truckle  bed  for  his  lying, — tliat  he 
ought  to  be  doing  of  something  for  himself, 
and  to  save  his  poor  parents  the  burthen  of 
his  provision.  Such  reflections  woukl  come 
upon  him,  when  he  had  been  wearing  away 
the  deep  midnight  with  anxious  study  ;  and 
so  one  morning,  having  come  to  a  resolution, 
he  dressed  himself  with  all  neatness,  and 
bent  his  steps  towards  Jemmy  Catchpole's, 
whom  he  had  heard  was  in  want  ot  some 
one,  to  copy  papers  and  parchment  and  such 
things.  He  saw  the  little  lawyer,  after 
waiting  a  moivstrous  time  in  a  low  narrow 
chamber,  whereof  it  was  difficult  to  say 
whether  the  boards  or  the  ceiling  were  in 
the  dirtiest  state,  who,  hearing  of  his  errand, 
made  him  write  as*  he  dictated,  at  which  he 
looked  very  intently,  and  though  it  was  as 
fair  a  specimen  of  penmanship  as  might  be 
seen  any  where,  he  found  wonderful  fault 
with  it.  However,  the  end  of  it  was.  Jem- 
my Catchpolo  offered  to  employ  the  youth, 
and  for  his  services  give  him  a  knowledge 
of  the  law  for  the  first  year  or  so ;  and  after 
tliat,  should  he  have  made  any  reasonable 
progress  in  his  studies,  he  would  pay  him  a 
handsome  wage.  This  offer  was  gladly  ac- 
cepted, for  although  he  could  g-.iin  no  pre- 
sent profit  by  it,  his  sanguine  nature  saw  in 
it  a  most  bountiful  prospect. 

Behold  him  now,  in  that  den  of  a  place 
just  alluded  to,  surrounded  by  musty  parch- 
ments and  mouldering  papers,  with  scarce 
ever  any  otlier  convpanythan  the  rats  and 
the  spiders,  sitting  on  a  tott^-ring  stotil  at  a 
worm-eaten  desk,  writiiig  from  the  early 
morning  till  late  into  the  evening,  save  at 
such  tiujcs  as  he  was  allowed  to  get  hi? 
meals,  or  to  go  of  errands  for  his  employer. 
It  was  about  this  time  that  ho  began  to  take 
especial  note  of  the  humors  of  men,  wher- 
ever he  could  get  sight  of  them  ;  marking  in 
his  mind  that  distinctiveness  in  the  individu- 
al, which  made  him  differ  from  his  fellows ; 
and  observing,  with  (piite  as  much  minute- 
ness, the  manner  in  which  the  professions 
of  his  acquaintances  were  in  accordance  or 
in  opposition  to  their  ways  of  living.  By 
tliis   peculiar   curiousness  of  his,  he  took 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


119 


characters  as  a  limner  taketh  portraits, 
having  each  feature  so  set  down  from  the 
original,  that  he  could  carry  such  about 
with  him  wherever  he  went.  This  he  had 
certain  facilities  of  doing  in  his  new  occu- 
pation, as,  finding  him  exceeding  apt,  the 
lawyer  soon  employed  him  as  his  assistant 
wherever  he  went,  which  brought  him  into 
every  sort  of  company ;  for  Jemmy  Catch- 
pole  had  every  body's  business  on  his  hands, 
or,  at  least,  he  made  many  think  so,  and  he 
bustled  about  from  place  to  place,  as  if  the 
world  must  needs  stand  still  unless  he  gave 
it  his  help. 

Such  occasions,  and  the  observations  he 
drew  from  them,  afforded  the  youthful  Shaks- 
peare  some  little  amusement  in  the  dulness 
of  his  present  life.  What  books  the  lawyer 
had,  related  only  to  his  own  particular  voca- 
tion. The  papers  and  parchments  were  the  dry- 
est  stuff  that  ever  was  read  or  written  :  oven 
the  very  atmosphere  of  the  chamber  seemed 
to  breathe  of  law ;  and  as  for  Jemmy  Catch- 
pole,  his  talk  was  a  mere  patchworli  of  law 
phrases,  that  required  considerable  familiar- 
ity with  legal  instruments  to  make  the  slight- 
est sense  of.  In  fiict,  the  little  lawyer  had 
so  used  himself  to  such  a  style  in  his  wri- 
tings and  readings,  that  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  talk,  think,  or  write,  in  any  other. 
The  tediousness  of  this  was  sometimes  al- 
most insupportable  to  the  young  poet,  and  he 
only  made  it  tolerable  by  the  occasional 
writing  of  some  sweet  ballad  of  his  fair  mis- 
tress, when  he  should  be  engrossing  a  sheet 
of  parchment  for  his  busy  master. 

But  then,  after  all  this  weary  lal»r,  how 
famously  did  he  enjoy  his  midnight  meetings 
with  the  sprightly  Anne  Hathaway.  There 
would  they  stand  together,  under  the  friend- 
ly shadow  of  the  walnut-tree  before  the  cot- 
tage, in  such  loving  fashion  as  I  never  can 
sufficiently  describe,  till  the  stars  disappeared, 
and  the  sun's  crimson  pennon  began  to  peep 
above  the  eastern  hills.  Nothing  in  imagi- 
nation can  come  at  all  nigh  to  the  passion- 
ate earnestness  of  his  manner  at  these  times. 
It  came  to  the  ear  of  the  enraptured  maiden, 
in  a  resistless  torrent  of  eloquence  that  swept 
down  all  denyings.  There  appeared  a 
breathing  fire  in  his  words  that  made  the  air 
all  around  to  glow  with  a  delicious  warmth  ; 
and  his  looks  beamed  with  such  exceeding 
brilliance,  that  to  the  enamored  damsel  they 
made  his  beautiful  clear  countenance  like 
unto  the  picture  of  some  saint,  clothed  with  a 
continual  halo.  It  was  not  possible  for  the 
most  scrupulous  discreet  creature  to  have 
resisted  so  earnest  a  wooer,  therefore  it  can- 
not be  considered  in  any  way  strange,  that 
the  fond  nature  of  the  bloominjj  Anne  should 


have  acknowledged  his  complete  influence. 
It  so  happened,  that  after  passing  the  hours 
in  such  deUcate  pleasure  as  such  a  lover 
was  likely  to  produce,  on  his  taking  leave  of 
her,  he  sung  the  following  words  to  a  plea- 
sant tune  that  had  long  been  a  favorite  of 
his.  The  song  was  thus  styled  in  a  copy  he 
gave  to  her  soon  after  : — 

WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARe's  GOOD  NIGHT  TO  HIS 

soul's  mistress. 

"  Good  night,  sweet  life  !  yet,  dearest,  say, 

How  can  that  night  be  good  to  me. 
That  drives  me  from  my  bliss  away, 

Whilst  taking  ofl'  mine  eyes  from  thee  ? 
Good  night  I — the  hours  so  swiftly  are  fleeting, 

We  find  no  time  to  mark  their  flight  ; 
And  having  known  such  joy  in  meeting, 

'Tis  hard  to  say — Good  night !   good  night ! 
Good  night,  sweet  life  l  ere  daylight  beams. 

And  sleep  gives  birth  to  hopes  divine, 
May  I  be  present  in  thy  dreams, 

And  blessed  as  thou  shalt  be  in  mine. 
Good  night !  yet  still  I  fondly  linger  ; 

I  go,  but  do  not  leave  thy  sight : 
Though  morning  shows  her  rosy  finger, 

I  murmur  still — Good  night  I  good  night !" 

Tliis  was  the  song,  simple  though  it  may 
be ;  but  his  impassioned  maimer  of  singing 
it,  which  clothed  every  word  with  unuttera- 
ble passion,  I  cannot  give. 

'•  I  tell  thee  what  it  is,  fi-iend  Will,"  ex- 
claimed a  familiar  voice  from  an  open  case- 
ment above  them,  so  much  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  lovers  that  they  started  from  the 
affectionately  closeness  of  their  position  on 
a  sudden ;  "  if  thou  wilt  not  come  a  wooing 
at  decent  hours,  or  dost  again  wake  me  out 
of  my  sleep  with  the  singing  of  love-songs, 
I'll  have  none  of  thy  company.  And  I  tell 
thee  what  it  is,  Mistress  Anne, — if  thou  al- 
lowest  of  such  loud  kissing,  thou  wilt  alarm 
the  whole  country  within  a  mile  of  thee  !" 

"  Heart  o'  inc,  father  how  you  talk  1" 
cried  the  blushing  criminal.  John  Hatha- 
way closed  the  casement  and  returned  to 
his  bed,  chuckling  like  one  who  had  just 
succeeded  in  playing  oft"  some  exquisite 
pleasant  jest. 

About  this  period  the  youthful  Shakspeare 
was  ever  meeting  John  a  Combe.  Although 
he  could  scarce  be  got  to  speak  to  any  other 
person  in  the  town,  save  on  business,  John 
a  Combe  never  failed  to  accost  the  young 
poet  whenever  they  met.  It  was  evident 
each  took  pleasure  in  the  other's  .society; 
for  although  Master  Combe  was  marvellous 
bitter  in  his  speech  upon  all  occasions,  he 
was  ever  betraying  to  the  close  observance 
of  his  companion,  a  kindness  of  nature  which 


160 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARB. 


the  latter  could  well  appreciate.  He  sus- 1  for,  as  hath  been  said,  he  had  a  strange  cn- 
pected  that  beneath  this  covering  of  gall  and  i  riousness  to  know  what  liis  companion  had 
■wormwood  the  sweet  honey  of  huiniinily  lay  '  promised. 


in  exhaustless  heaps  ;  and  knowing  of  his 
history,  and  his  former  greatness  of  soul,  he 
was  exceedingly  curious  to  learn  the  secret 
cause  that  had  made  him  apparently  so 
changed  a  man.  Once,  when  he  met  liim, 
the  usurer  made  liiiu  promise  to  call  at  his 


liouse  inunediately  he  had  done  his  labors  of  words  : — 


'•  I  require  of  thee,  first  of  all,  that  thou 
declarest  to  nojie  one  word  of  the  secret  I 
am  about  to  entrust  to  thee."  The  young 
poet  readily  made  Jiis  assurance  he  would 
not  repeat  a  syllable;  and  presently  the- 
usurer    continued   his    narration    in    these 


the  day,  as  he  wished  to  see  him  on  a  mat 
ter  of  deep  importance.  William  Sliaks- 
peare  promised,  and  that  evening,  instead  of 
going  to  his  mistress,  he  was  found  seated  in 
Jolm  a  Combe's  chamber,  where  one  candle 
gave  just  sufficient  liglit  to  in;ike  the 
cheerlessness  of  the  place  most  conspicuous. 
The  usurer  sat  beibre  him,  with  that  restless 
look  and  manner  with  which  a  man  who  has 
determined  to  do  a  thing  which  he  likes  not. 
prepares  to  set  about  it. 

"  I've  heard  thou  art  playing  the  lover — 
is't  true  ?"  inquired  he,  in  Ills  usual  sharp 
voice. 

"  Most  undeniable,"  replied  the  young  po- 
et with  a  smile. 

"  O'  my  life,  I  did  not  think  thou  hadst 
such  marvellous  lack  of  brains,"  observed 
the  other.  "  Wouldst  cater  for  thine  own 
misery  ? — Wouldst  build  thy  towering  Ba- 
bel to  the  skies,  to  end  in  tlie  utter  confu' 
sion  of  thy  thoughts  '?  Have  more  discre 
tion." 


Perchance  thou  has  heard  of  one  John 
a  Combe,  whose  goodness  of  heart  was  the 
theme  of  all  of  his  acquaintance.  I  was 
that  John  a  Combe.  I  had  such  store  of 
love  in  my  breast  that  I  scattered  it  far  and 
wide,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  grow  the  greater 
the  more  it  was  so  squaiwlered.  No  matter 
what  evil  I  miglit  see,  I  regarded  it  only  as 
the  weeds  in  a  corn  field,  surrounded  by 
such  bountiful  provision  of  good  that  it  was 
scarce  worthy  the  observation  of  any  person 
of  a  thankful  nature.  My  youth  was  chef' 
ished  with  such  pleasing  feelings.  My  man- 
hood flourished  upon  the  same  teemi»g  soil. 
I  sought  to  sow  benefits  broadcast  wherever 
there  was  j)lace  and  o(:portunity  ;  and  found, 
or  fancied  I  found,  the  crop  amjiiy  repay  me 
for  tlie  labor.  I  made  friends  wherever  I 
met  faces.  All  men  seemed  to  uie  my 
brothers  ;  and  every  woman  I  looked  upon 
as  a  domestic  deity  deserving  honorable 
worship.  At  last  I  met  one  wlio  regarded 
me  as  an  enemy.     I  strove  to  win   him  to 


Indeed  I  find  in  it  so  sweet  a  happiness, ;  better  feelings,  and  failed.     He  essayed  to 


]  would  not  abandon  it  at  any  price,"  said 
his  companion,  with  all  the  fervor  of  a  true 
lover. 

"  Is  not  the  poison  sweetened  to  attract 
the  fly!"  exclaimed  the  usurer  more  ear- 
nestly. "  I  tell  thee  thou  shouldst  avoid 
the  tem[)tation  as  thou  wouldst  a  pestilence. 
It  will  destroy  thee,  body  and  soul.  It  will 
madden  thy  brain  and  wither  thy  heart, — 
make  thy  blood  a  consuming  fire,  and  thy 
life  an  intolerable  wretchedness  !" 

"  Truly  1  have  no  such  fear,"  replied  the 
youthful  Shaksj)eare. 

"  When  docs  youth  fear  when  there  is  a 


destroy  me  in  hoiKist  battle — I  disarmed  iiim 
and  went  my  way  unhurt.  He  then  tried  to 
rob  me  of  my  life  by  treachery  ;  but  here  he 
was  both  batlled  and  punished,  wliilst  I  re- 
mained as  uninjured  as  at  first.  He  was  a 
demon — a  fiend  of  hell,  let  loose  on  the 
earth. 

"  I  had  met  with  many  women  seeming 
in  every  way  worthy  of  my  love,  and  show- 
ing such  signs  as  proved  I  should  have  no 
great  difficulty  in  tlie  winning  of  tlieir  af- 
fections :  but  my  soul  was  somewhat  curi- 
ous in  the  pursuit  of  female  excellence.  It 
must  needs  have  a  phoenix.      It  would  not 


fair  prospect  before  it !"  cried  John  a  Combe, !  be  satisiied  with  what  appeared  good — it 
"  What  a  desperate  folly  it  is.  Point  out  the  strove  to  procure  jiossession  of  the  best.  I 
gaping  precipice  within  its  path,  it  will  go  ;  sought  for  such  an  object,  for  a  long  time 
madly  forward.  Of  a  surety  nature  might '  unavailingly.  At  last  in  a  neighboring 
well  wear  a  robe  of  motley,  f(jr  she  presi- '.  town  I  met  with  one  who  seemed  all  I  re- 
deth  over  a  goodly  company  of  fools.  I  tell  |  quired.  She  was  of  a  })oor  fiimily,  tlje 
thee,  boy,  there  is  no  such  dan<.'er  as  that  \  (laughter  of  a  man  supporting  himself  and 
thou  seemcst  so  enamored  of;  and  if  nothing  her  by  the  profits  of  a  humble  trade.  She 
else  will  turn  thee  froui  thy  destruction,  I  was  fair — young— of  gentle  manners,  and 
will  unfold  to  thee  the  story  of  mine  own  ,  of  a  winning  mode.-t  innocency.  What 
fearful  experience  of  this  blight  upon  hu-  more  could  be  wanted  ?  On  further  ac- 
manity."  jquaintance  her  merits  rose  in  greater  con- 

William   Shakspcaro  listened  in  silence,  '  .-^picuousncss,  and  llic  perfect  simplicity  of 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


151 


her  disposition  won  on  nve  more  and  more  | 
every  day.  Was  not  this  a  plioenix  ? — a 
phoenix  tiiat  rose  from  the  flames  her  bril- 
liant beauty  raised  in  my  heart.  I  grew 
enamored :  and  she  with  an  admirable  deli- 
cacy retired  from  my  advances.  I  perse- 
vered, and  saw  in  her  some  faint  signs  1 
was  making  way  in  her  esteem.  Still  there 
was  sucli  sweet  air  of  purest  chastity  in  her 
every  action,  it  kept  me  a  worshipper  at  so 
respectful  a  distance,  I  could  not  believe  my 
success  to  be  in  any  certainty. 

"  What  did  1  do  upon  this.  I  determined 
to  take  every  opportunity  of  studying  her 
nature,  with  the  hope  of  so  moulding  it  to 
my  ideas  of  womanly  excellence,  I  should 
by  possessing  her,  secure  myself  a  life  of 
such  exceeding  happiness  the  most  blessed 
could  have  but  little  notion  of.  To  say  I 
loved  her,  methinks  is  scarce  to  say  enough, 
yet  of  the  mere  outward  show  of  passion  1 
afforded  the  world  so  little,  none  could  have 
believed  I  had  been  so  desperately  enamored. 
It  was  that  nice  sense  of  delicacy  in  her, 
and  modest  shrinking  from  familiar  praise, 
that  took  me  captive.  To  w^n  her  love  I 
strove  with  all  the  earnestness  of  manhood 
flushed  with  its  proudest  energies.  But  how 
to  win  it  was  the  question.  I  would  not 
purchase  it  by  gifts,  for  that  suited  not  my 
humor.  I  would  only  have  it  come  as  the 
price  of  her  appreciation  of  my  merit,  for 
then  I  thought  I  could  the  better  count  on 
its  sincerity  and  duration.  With  this  flne 
fantasy  of  mine,  1  would  not  let  her  know  I 
was  in  such  good  estate  as  1  really  was.  I 
affected  some  humbleness  of  fortune,  think- 
ing by  gaining  her  in  such  guise  I  should 
be  sure  that  no  alloy  of  selhshness  could 
mingle  with  the  pure  sterling  of  her  love. 

"  1  took  up  my  abode  in  her  father's  house 
to  have  the  fullest  means  of  completing  my 
honest  purpose.  She  seemed  to  grow  under 
my  hand  like  a  flower  of  my  own  planting. 
She  began  to  regard  me  with  a  softer  ten- 
derness. I  doubled  my  assiduity,  and  she 
gradually  warmed  into  a  graceful  fondness; 
yet  in  all  that  she  did  or  said  there  was  so 
exquisite  an  artlessness,  I  was  more  charm- 
ed than  had  she  been  a  thousand  times  more 
affectionate  without  such  simple  coloring. 
I  loved  more  and  more.  At  last  the  crown- 
ing of  all  my  toil  I  gained  from  her  the 
much  longed-for  confession — the  treasure 
of  her  regard  was  mine  and  mine  alone.  I 
did  not  betray  myself  even  then,  delighted 
as  I  was  beyond  all  measure  ;  but  I  resolv- 
ed the  next  day  to  leave  the  house,  return 
in  my  true  character  as  speedily  as  I  might, 
and,  before  all  her  acquaintance,  wed  iier 
with  such  honorable  ceremony  as  worth  like 


hers  deserved.  I  thought  my  bliss  complete, 
and  my  gratitude  to  the  author  of  it  knew 
no  bounds. 

"  I  slept  in  a  chamber  directly  under  hers, 
and  often  as  I  lay  in  my  bed  have  I  enjoyed 
more  exquisite  sweet  pleasure  in  hearing 
her  gentle  footsteps  pass  my  door,  and  up 
the  stairs  to  her  sweet  rest — to  which,  in 
consequence,  as  she  told  me,  of  her  house- 
hold labors,  she  was  the  last  to  retire  of  any 
in  the  house.  That  night  thinking  of  my 
great  happiness  to  come,  1  kept  awake  long- 
er than  had  been  customary  with  me  ;  and 
all  at  once  I  marvelled  I  had  not  yet  heard 
her  light  tootfalls,  for  it  was  far  beyond  her 
usual  time  of  coming  up  stairs.  Another 
hour  passed  by  and  yet  no  sign  of  her  com- 
ing. I  began  to  get  somewhat  alarmed,  as 
lovers  win  upon  anjthing  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary in  their  mistress's  behavior.  At  last 
when  I  had  nigh  worked  myself  into  a  fever 
with  imagining  of  all  sorts  of  dangers  that 
might  have  happened  to  her,  to  my  infinite 
joy  I  heard  her  softly  approach  my  door. 
Almost  at  the  instant  1  heard  other  footsteps 
ascending  with  her.  In  the  next  moment 
I  distinguished  a  slight  whispering  in  a 
strange  voice.  Then  two  persons  together 
proceeded  past  my  door — together  they  as- 
cended the  stairs — together  they  entered  her 
chamber— the  door  was  locked — I  could  then 
distinctly  hear  above  me,  mingled  with  her 
light  footfall  and  gentle  voice,  the  full  deep 
tones  and  heavy  step  of  a  man. 

"  At  this  discovery  I  started  up  as  though 
I  had  been  bit  by  an  adder — the  bed  shook 
under  the  fierce  trembling  of  my  limbs — my 
heart  beat  in  my  breast  as  a  madman  rushes 
against  his  prison  bars — my  veins  seemed 
tilled  with  the  flame,  and  my  brain  scorch- 
ing with  Are ;  and  a  hot  blighting  wind  ap- 
peared so  to  till  the  place  around  me,  I 
breathed  as  though  every  breath  would  be 
my  last.  But  this  v/as  but  the  beginning  of 
my  tortures.  Had  I  possessed  the  power  of 
moving  I  would  have  done  a  deed  of  just 
vengeance,  which  should  have  remained  a 
monument  of  terror  unto  the  end  of  time; 
but  I  was  there  like  one  chained,  having  no 
other  senses  but  those  of  liearing  and  feel- 
ing. Talk  of  the  sufferings  of  the  damned, 
what  were  they  to  the  agonies  I  endured. 
Lash  me  with  scorpions — plunge  me  into 
everlasting  fires  —  goad  me  with  serpents 
stings — strain  every  nerve  and  artery  with 
puUies,  racks  and  wheels — 'tis  but  a  mere 
ordinary  aching  in  comparison.  At  last 
nature  could  hold  out  no  longer,  and  all  sen- 
sation left  me. 

'•  When  I  recovered  consciousness,  the 
sun  was  streaming  in  at  my  casement ;  but 


152 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


it  was  no  sun  for  me.  I  was  no  mere  the 
man  I  had  been  twelve  liours  before,  than  is 
a  withered  bud  a  blooming  flower.  A  per- 
petual darkness  took  possession  of  mine 
eyes — my  veins  held  a  running  poison — the 
sweet  feelings  of  huniunity  liad  turned  to  a 
sourness  that  corroded  their  vessels — all  my 
hopes  were  consumed  to  ashes,  and  scat- 
tered to  tlie  four  winds ;  and  all  my  belief 
in  the  existence  of  the  worthiness  of  hu- 
manity burst  hke  a  bubble  in  the  air,  leav- 
ing no  sign  to  tell  that  such  a  thing  had 
ever  appeared.  Wherever  I  looked  1  spied 
the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre — wherever  I 
moved  I  smelt  the  filth  of  a  charnel.  Villainy 
was  branded  on  every  face.  Craft  made  its 
dwelling  in  every  habitation.  I  saw  the 
world  intent  on  my  destruction.  I  declared 
war  against  the  whole  human  race. 

"  I  look  counsel  with  myself,  and  deter- 
mined before  I  left  that  hateful  place  to  dis- 
cover one  thing.  I  had  dressed  inystlf  in 
readiness  to  set  about  the  fulfilment  of  my 
resolution,  when  who  should  make  her  ap- 
pearance but  the  object  of  my  late  care  and 
regard — my  |)hcEni.x !  my  best  among  the 
excellent !  Towards  me  she  came  looking 
as  simple,  innocent,  pure,  and  artless  as  she 
had  looked  from  the  beginning.  I  managed 
by  a  desperate  effort  to  keep  me  a  calmed 
countenance,  tliough  there  raged  so  fierce 
a  tempest  within  me  as  beggareth  all  de- 
scription. 

"  She  sat  herself  down  as  usual,  and  with 
her  accustomed  gentle  kindness  commenced 
asking  concerning  of  my  health.  I  calmly 
drew  a  chair  next  to  hers,  quietly  seated 
myself  as  near  to  her  as  I  could — quickly 
seized  one  of  her  wrists  in  each  hand,  and 
with  my  face  close  to  her  own,  looked  into 
her  eyes  as  thougii  I  would  read  there  the 
deepest  secret  of  her  soul.  She  shrunk  from 
my  scrutiny  with  every  sign  of  consciou 
guilt.  I  then  poured  out  on  her  the  pent-up 
flood  of  contempt,  indignation,  and  abhor- 
rence ;  and  she  trembled  in  pallid  shame. 
I  saw  she  was  humbled  to  the  dust  with 
fear,  and  rung  from  iior  reluctant  lips  the 
whole  history  of  her  infamy.  It  was  a  com- 
mon case.  An  excess  of  vanity  disguised 
by  matchless  craft,  made  her  seek  to  be- 
come above  her  natural  station.  She  souglit 
to  be  the  envy  of  her  companions,  by  wearing 
of  such  ornament  as  they  could  not  obfciin. 
These  she  cared  not  to  obtain  iionestly, 
though  she  employed  an  exhaustless  stock 
of  artifice  to  nuike  it  appear  they  were  so 
acquired.  The  tempter  was  at  hand,  ready 
to  take  adviuitage  of  her  evil-dis])osedness. 
A  few  trinkets  and  other  pretty  baubles, 
with  a  fair  commodity  of  oatiis  and  flatteries, 


completed  the  bargain.  The  price  paid,  she 
sold  herself,  body  and  soul.  Still  I  stopped 
not  here.  I  insisted  on  the  name  of  her  com- 
panion in  iniquity.  After  a  while  she  gave 
it.     It  was  mine  enemy. 

"  He  had  seen  where  I  had  stored  up  all 
my  hopes — he  had  noticed  my  infinite  pains- 
taking to  make  my  happiness  complete — he 
had  watched — eagerly — delightedly  watch- 
ed the  progress  of  the  enamored  game  I  was 
playing,  till  I  had  staked  every  thought  and 
feeling  on  the  issue  ;  and  then  he  came  with 
his  damnable  base  villainy,  and  so  cheated 
me,  I  not  only  lost  what  I  had  staked,  but 
lost  myself  as  well.  At  the  mention  of  his 
name  1  flung  her  from  me  like  a  toad  :  and 
as  the  fear-struck  wretch  lay  prostrate  be- 
fore me,  I  heaped  on  her  guilty  soul  the 
abundant  measure  of  my  honest  execrations. 
She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  writhed 
like  a  bruised  worm ;  but  I  left  her  not  till 
I  liad  exhausted  every  term  of  infamy  and 
scorn  I  had  at  my  will.  Doubtless,  though 
the  next  hour  she  went  about  wearing  of 
the  same  simple,  artless,  innocent  counte- 
nance as  first  attracted  me ",  and  as  token 
of  her  worthiness,  exhibited  to  her  envious 
companions  the  letters  and  verses  of  my 
writing,  wlierein  I  bestowed  on  her  that 
estimable  rare  clothing  with  which  true 
love  delighteth  to  attire  its  deity: — and,  I 
make  no  manner  of  question,  liath  since 
palmed  herself  off  on  others,  as  she  strove 
to  do  with  me,  as  the  purest,  kindest  and 
best  among  the  most  admirable  of  her 
sex. 

"  As  for  the  villain  that  did  me  tliis  in- 
tolerable wrong,  I  sought  him  in  all  places, 
but  he  managed  to  elude  the  strictness  of 
my  search.  If  there  remain  for  me  one 
glimpse  of  happiness  in  this  world,  it  can 
only  come  when  I  shall  toss  his  body  to  tlie 
ravens,  and  leave  his  bones  a  crumbling 
monument  of  matchless  perfidy,  to  whiten 
in  the  blast.  Bowed  down,  as  I  am,  with 
the  weight  of  those  memories  which  crush 
my  himvanity  to  the  dust,  my  ann  seems 
nerved,  and  all  my  limbs  clothed  with  a 
giant's  power,  whenever  I  see  in  my  mind's 
eye  the  arrival  of  my  cUiy  of  vengeance.  I 
know  it  will  come.  Nature  hath  been  out- 
mged  beyond  all  previous  example.  Tlio 
pmiishment  shall  be  in  proportion  to  tlie 
offence.  The  breath  of  life  is  kept  witiiin 
my  miserable  frame  only  by  an  unconquer- 
able desire  to  execute  this  natur.il  decree ; 
and  till  that  longed-for  time  shall  come,  the 
scorn,  the  detestation,  tlie  hatred,  the  con- 
tempt, the  disgust,  the  loathing  and  abhor- 
rence that  bul)bles  from  my  heart,  will  fall, 
for  want  of  being  disciiargcd  upon  its  proper 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


153 


object,  upon  those  who  have  the  ill  hap  to 
come  within  my  influence. 

"Boy!"  exclaimed  John  a  Combe,  in  a 
voice  scarce  audible  from  the  greatness  of 
his  emotions,  "  when  I  think  of  what  I  might 
have  become,  and  behold  what  I  am,  my 
heart  feels  as  if  it  would  shiver  in  my  breast. 
There  are  many  who  may  still  remember  me 
in  my  better  days,  but  I  doubt  they  knew 
the  happiness  I  had  then  in  myself  and  my 
doings.  From  philanthropy  to  usury  is  a 
huge  step;  yet  I  took  it  at  a  bound.  May- 
hap I  am  mad — I  have  had  cause  enough 
for  it — but  I  can  assert  of  a  certainty,  I  am 
— most  miserable." 

William  Shakspeare  had  listened  to  the 
preceding  narration  with  exceeding  interest; 
but  the  last  few  words  were  spoken  with 
such  a  touching  earnestness,  he  was  more 
deeply  moved  than  ever  he  had  been  in  his 
life  before.  He  saw  this  was  no  case  for 
common  consolations — he  therefore  attempt- 
ed nothing  of  the  sort. 

"  Never  breathe  to  me  a  word  of  woman's 
honorableness,"  continued  the  usurer,  with 
increased  earnestness.  "  This  creature  that 
I  had  .worshipped  with  so  pure  a  spirit, 
whose  worthiness  I  exalted  above  all  virtue, 
and  whose  excellence  I  so  honored,  it  out- 
topped  every  example  of  goodness,  not  only 
did  me  this  inhuman  wrong  out  of  her  own 
infinite  baseness ;  but  as  soon  as  I  had  rid 
myself  of  her  infamous  society,  she  took  to 
slandering  me  with  the  coarse,  vile  coloring 
of  the  blackest  malice — thinking,  by  so  do- 
ing, my  testimony  of  her  shame  would  not 
be  believed.  I  alone  had  knowledge  of  her 
evil  doing — the  fear  which  guilt  produces 
continually  haunted  her — and  she  strove  to 
save  her  reputation  by  destroying  mine. 
She  gave  out  I  had  sought  to  use  her  dis- 
honestly, so  she  would  have  none  of  me ; 
and  accused  me  of  such  horrible  behaving 
as  none  but  the  degraded,  debased  thing  she 
had  made  herself,  could  have  conceived. 
Here,  then,  was  I  by  my  abundant  love  of 
virtue,  and  prodigal  generousness,  in  seek- 
ing to  make  others  happy,  stripped  hopeless 
— and  then  daubed  with  the  pitch  of  infamy ! 
I  have  said  nought  of  this  matter  hitherto, 
believing  I  might  escape  the  outstretched 
finger,  and  the  reviling  eye,  of  the  unjust 
world,  by  a  strict  secrecy.  My  pride  would 
not  allow  of  my  oftering  one  word  in  my 
own  defence,  convinced  that  men's  minds 
have  such  an  inclination  for  villainy,  they 
will  readily  entertain  it,  let  it  come  in  any 
shape.  No  where  will  there  be  found  any 
sympathy  for  abused  confidence,  for  the 
man  that  is  deceived  is  looked  upon  as  a 
poor  weak  fool,  that  should  have  had  more 


wit  than  to  have   suffered  such  cozening. 

"  I  felt  convinced  that  every  one  around 
me  were  striving  to  get  to  a  knowledge  of 
my  secret,  that  they  might  enjoy  the  plea- 
sure of  thinking  ill  of  me  ;  so  I  was  before- 
hand with  them — abused  all,  and  kept  all 
from  the  slightest  approach  to  that  famili- 
arity which  they  desired  should  lead  to  con- 
tempt. But  what  a  life  is  this  I  am  living! 
and  when  I  behold  thy  fresh  young  nature 
pursuing  the  same  course  which  mine  hath 
gone,  have  I  not  reason  to  fear  it  will  come 
to  a  like  dreadful  ending  ?  Boy !  look  at 
me,  and  pause  in  thy  career.  I  have  been 
as  thou  art  now — a  worshipper  of  fair  ap- 
pearances. I  loved  the  goodly  garnishing 
of  the  bright  world,  and  would  have  rushed 
against  a  thousand  levelled  spears  in  de- 
fence of  its  integrity.  Thou  seest  me  here 
decrepid  in  my  prime,  inwardly  affected 
with  a  moral  leprosy,  that  eateth  my  heart 
to  the  core — outwardly,  one  entire  sore,  that 
causeth  me  to  sluink  from  the  world  as  from 
a  scorching  fire.  I  am  at  strife  with  my 
fellows — I  am  at  war  with  myself — the  day 
bringeth  no  peace  for  me — the  night  no  re- 
pose. Merciful  God  !"  exclaimed  the  un- 
happy usurer,  in  his  deep  frenzy,  clasping 
his  hands  together,  with  a  wild  look  of  agony 
and  suppUcation.  "  Is  there  no  peace  for 
the  guiltless  ? — Is  there  nought  but  perpet- 
ual torture  for  the  doer  of  good  ?  Tear  not 
my  heart-strings  with  so  rude  a  grasp  !  I 
have  wronged  none.  I  have  loved  all.  I 
have  worshipped  fervently  each  excellent 
evidence  of  thy  perfect  handiwork.  Let  not 
mine  enemy  prevail  against  me.  He  hath 
done  me  most  intolerable  injury.  Pity  for 
my  undeserved  sufferings  !  Justice  against 
the  viUainy  that  produced  them  !  Mercy  ! 
help !  vengeance !" 

Shouting  these  last  words  in  the  most 
piercing  tones,  John  a  Combe  tottered  for- 
ward a  few  steps,  and  before  his  young  com- 
panion could  reach  the  place  where  he  was, 
fell  exliausted  upon  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

Is  this  your  manly  service  1 
A  devil  scorns  to  do  it. 

Massinger. 
Now  whether  it  were  providence,  or  luck. 
Whether  the  keeper's  or  the  stealer's  buck. 
There  we  had  venison. 

Bishop  Corbet. 

"  See  that  this  plot  of  thine  have  a  more 
profitable  issue  than  thy  preceding  ones." 


154 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  It  cannot  fail,  my  lord,  it  is  so  cunning- 
ly devised." 

"  So  thou  saidst  of  the  others,  yet  I  reaped 
no  advantage  of  them." 

"Tliatwas  owing  to  no  fault  of  mine, 
believe  ine,  but  to  circumstances  which,  as 
it  was  clean  iinjjossible  they  could  be  fore- 
seen of  the  piercingest  wit,  it  is  plain  they 
could  not  have  been  prevented." 

Thus  spoke  two  of  whom  the  reader  hath 
already  some  acquaintance — to  wit,  the  li- 
centious noble  and  his  villainous  assistant ; 
and  they  were  sitting  together  in  a  small, 
mean  chamber  of  an  obscure  inn  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Charlcote — the  former,  as 
usual,  so  closely  wrapped  up,  as  if  he  feared 
being  recognized  ;  and  the  other  in  finer  fea- 
ther than  he  had  ever  been  in  before,  as 
though  he  was  intent  in  playing  some  ex- 
ceeding gallant  part. 

"  I  marvel,  my  lord,  you  should  waste  so 
much  labor  on  so  poor  an  object,"  observed 
the  meaner  villain.  "  Methinks  you  might 
have  won  a  nobler  prize  at  half  the  pains. 
Indeed,  I  have  been  credibly  informed  this 
Mrtbel  is  nothing  better  than  a  very  mean 
person, — a  mere  foundling — mayhap,  the 
chance  offspring  of  vulgar  parents — that 
hath  now  become  a  sort  of  humble  servant 
to  the  good  dame  by  whom  she  was  disco- 
vered." 

"Dost  tell  me  this  story, fellow !''  exclaim- 
ed his  companion,  rising  from  his  seat  with 
most  haughty  indignant  glances.  "  Why, 
where  hath  flown  thy  wits,  that  thou  couldst 
credit  so  shallow  a  tale  ? — Foundling  !  o' 
my  life,  I  would  gladly  give  a  thousand 
crowns  to  pick  up  such  a  foundling  but 
once  or  twice  in  my  life.  Vulgar  parent- 
age !  By  this  hand,  I  have  seen  her  wear 
so  regal  an  air  with  her,  as  Elizabeth,  in  her 
proudest  mood,  never  came  up  to.  Ser- 
vant !  Hast  noted  her  look  and  move,  and 
speak  with  that  unrivalled  dignity  she  pos- 
sesseth,  and  talk  so  idly  ?  'Slife,  thy  brains 
are  addled." 

The  gallant  looked  all  humbleness.  He 
knew  it  would  be  somewhat  unprofitable  to 
him  to  differ  in  opinion  with  his  employer 
on  such  a  matter  ;  so  he  made  no  more  ado 
than  to  express  his  entire  di.sbelief  of  the 
story  he  had  been  told,  and  avow  he  had  ne- 
ver entertained  it  from  the  first. 

"  I  must  say  this  plot  seemeth  to  me  a 
famous  good  one  for  the  purpose,"  observed 
the  other,  as  ho  was  making  lor  the  door. — 
"But,  mark  me,  if  that  knave  of  thine  lay 
but  his  sacrilegious  finger  on  her,  I'll  cut 
him  to  shreds  !" 

•'Be  assured,  my  lord,  everything  shall 
be  done  according  to  your  noble  wishes," 


replied  his  associate.  Soon  afterwards  both 
mounted  their  horses  at  the  door,  the  noble 
then  started  off  in  one  direction,  and  the 
other,  accompanied  by  the  same  ill-looking 
fellow,  that  had  dealt  William  Shakspeare 
so  fierce  a  blow  in  the  park,  at  Charlcote, 
took  a  different  road.  These  two  rode  to- 
wards Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  house  in  deep  and 
earnest  converse  all  the  way  ;  the  former 
ever  anon  breaking  of!  his  discourse  by 
muttering  the  words  "  fellow,"  and  "  so  my 
brains  are  addled!"  in  a  manner  which 
showed  he  had  taken  huge  offence  at  those 
expressions.  In  another  hour  they  were 
seated  with  the  justice  in  his  favorite  cham- 
ber, making  famous  cheer  of  his  good  ale  ; 
the  gallant  appearing  to  be  a  marvellous 
great  person ;  and  his  fellow  dressed  in  a 
falconer's  suit  of  green,  played  the  part  of 
the  honest,  himible  serving  man,  that  his 
master,  out  of  regard  for  his  exceeding  me- 
rit, sought  to  make  happy.  He  spoke  sel- 
dom, and  then  only  to  praise  his  good  mas- 
ter, or  say  some  respectful  speech  to  his 
worship  the  justice.  However,  his  compa- 
nions left  him  but  little  opportunity  for  much 
talking,  had  he  been  so  inclined  ;  for  what 
witii  his  master's  marvellous  accounts  of  his 
influence  at  court,  and  the  many  noble  per- 
sons he  was  held  in  such  esteem  of,  lihey 
could  refuse  him  nothing,  and  Sir  Thomas's 
still  more  incredible  accounts  at  his  familiar 
acquaintance  with  these  notable  person- 
ages, in  their  youth,  and  the  famous  tricks 
he  and  they  had  played  together,  there  was 
but  little  room  for  a'  third  party  to  bring  in 
a  word. 

We  must,  however,  leave  these  worthies 
for  the  present,  and  accompany  the  courte- 
ous reader  to  another  chamber,  wherein  the 
gentle  Mabel  was  receiving  a  grave  and 
somewhat  severe  lecture  from  Dame  Lucy. 
The  poor  foundling  looked  pale  and  sad. — 
She  was  striving  to  resign  herself  to  the 
humility  of  her  fortunes,  but  there  was 
something  in  her  nature  that  would  not  be 
content. 

"  I  beseech  you,  sweet  mistress,  let  me 
hear  no  more  of  the  marriage,"  said  she  at 
last,  in  a  manner  pitiful  enough  to  have 
moved  any  person.  "  This  man  I  know  to 
be  one  of  those  who  assisted  to  carry  me  off, 
and  the  other  his  master  was  the  mainspring 
of  the  whole  villainy." 

"  Did  any  ever  hear  of  such  presump- 
tion !"  exclaimed  the  old  dame,  in  a  famous 
astonishment.  "  Doth  not  Sir  Thomas  de- 
clare that  the  gentleman  hath  been  his  good 
friend  nigh  upon  this  tsventy  year,  and  tha* 
the  other,  his  falconer,  he  believes  to  Iw  ar 
iionest  a  man  as  ever  broke  bread.     Dost 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


155 


pretend  to  know  more  than  the  justice  ?     I 
marvel  at  thy  horrible  impudency  !" 

''  I  cannot  be  mistaken,  for  they  have 
given  me  but  too  good  cause  to  hold  them 
lirmly  in  my  remembrance,"  added  the  poor 
foundhng. 

"  Here's  ingratitude  !"  cried  her  ancient 
companion,  seeming  to  be  getting  a  little 
out  of  temper!  '' Here's  obstinacy  !  Here's 
disobedience,  and  undutifulness  to  thy  pro- 
per advisers.  Art  not  ashamed  to  be  setting 
thyself  in  opposition  to  thy  betters,  who  have 
clotlied  thee,  and  fed  thee,  and  given  thee 
lodging,  and  made  of  thee  a  Christian  ? — 
By  my  troth,  I  would  not  have  believed  such 
huge  baseness  was  in  the  whole  world." 

"  But  [  have  no  desire  for  marriage,  an'  it 
please  you,  good  mistress,"  said  Mabel  ; 
"  methinks  I  am  well  enough  as  I  am." 

'•  How  dost  pretend  to  know  an3rthing  of 
the  sort,"  answered  Dame  Lucy,  sharply. — 
"  Is  not  the  justice  the  better  judge  !  Hath 
he  not  said  tliou  art  ill  otF,  and  dost  dare,  in 
the  face  of  it,  to  say  thou  art  well  enough  ? 
But  I  see  it  plain.  Thou  art  hankering  af- 
ter those  fine  fellows  who  met  thee  at  Kenil- 
worth  ;  and  would  sooner  be  the  leman  of  a 
gay  gallant  than  the  wife  of  an  honest  man. 
But  i  will  put  a  stop  to  thy  villainy  straiglit. 
The  justice  hath  declared  thou  art  to  marry, 
and  to  marry  thou  must  speedily  make  up 
thy  mind.  I  will  see  that  thou  art  properly 
wedded  with  all  convenient  speed  ;  and,  as 
earnest  of  my  intentions,  I  will  send  thee 
the  honest  man  who  is  to  be  thy  husband. — 
Prithee,  take  heed  thou  entertain  him  well." 
Mabel  saw  her  mistress  leave  the  cham- 
ber, and  sank  into  a  seat  with  a  mind  nigh 
paralyzed  with  a'pprehension.  She  had  sus- 
pected, for  some  tii^te,  some  plot  was  hatch- 
ing by  which  she  was  to  suffer,  and  she  now 
saw  its  villainous  shape  and  purpose.  She 
perceived  it  was  planned  with  such  extreme 
subtlety,  that  it  afforded  scarce  any  chance 
of  escape.  Her  thoughts  were  sinking  into 
a  very  desperate  hopelessness,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  there  entered  the  chamber, 
with  a  laalf-respectful,  half-fiimiliar  look, 
and  in  an  awkward,  clownish  manner,  the 
man  tliat  awhile  since  was  making  cheer 
with  his  master,  and  the  justice.  Mabel 
knew  him  at  a  glance,  and,  in  a  moment, 
sprung  to  her  feet,  eyeing  him  with  a  look 
of  scorn  and  detestation  tliat  appeared  to 
discompose  him  somewhat.  There  was 
scarce  a  bolder  villain  in  existence,  yet  it 
was  evident  he  felt  not  quite  at  his  ease  be- 
1  fore  the  flashing  glances  of  the  poor  found- 
!  ling.  He  seated  himself  on  a  chair,  holding 
i  his  hat  before  him  with  his  knees  close  toge- 
1    ther  ;  and  presently  shifted  his  position,  and 


then  again  changed  it.  Neither  had  spoke 
by  word  of  mouth  ;  but  the  looks  of  Mabel 
seemed  to  have  the  searchingest  language 
that  ever  was  said  or  written,  and  the  villain 
read  it,  understood  it,  and  felt  it.  At  last, 
he  commenced  speaking  : — "■  His  worship 
hath  had  such  goodness  as  to " 

"  Wretch  !"  exclaimed  Mabel,  interrupt- 
ing him  in  a  deep  low  voice,  in  which  utter 
contempt  seemed  to  breathe  its  most  humi- 
liating spirit ;  and  then  advancing  towards 
him  two  or  three  steps  in  all  the  haughty 
dignity  of  virtue,  continued  with  an  elo- 
quence of  look  and  gesture  which  exceed- 
eth  all  powers  of  description,  to  address  him 
thus  ; — "  The  spawn  of  the  toad  hath  a 
name,  the  slough  of  the  adder  may  be  called 
something ;  but  what  art  thou,  monster  of 
baseness,  for  whom  language  hath  no  fit  ti- 
tle. Art  a  man  ?  Manhood  spits  at  thee  1 
Art  a  beast  ?  The  most  bestial  thing  that 
crawls,  knoweth  nothing  of  the  vile  office 
thou  hast  undertaken.  Avaunt,  thou  out- 
rage upon  nature  !  Away,  thou  shame  on 
humanity  !  Go,  hide  thee,  if  hiding  thou 
canst  find  ;  for  if  thou  couldst  crawl  within 
the  deepest  bowels  of  the  earth,  the  earth 
would  sicken  at  thy  touch,  and  cast  thee  up 
— the  sea  would  raise  her  gorge  at  thee — 
the  mountains  heave  at  thy  approach — and 
all  the  elements  of  matter  shrink  from  thy 
neighborhood,  as  from  an  abomination  too 
gross  to  be  endured!" 

The  man  winced  under  this  address,  as  if 
every  word  of  it  had  been  a  goad  that  touch- 
ed him  to  the  quick.  His  dark  scowling 
eyes  glanced  restlessly  about,  he  changed 
color  several  times,  and  looked  in  that  pe- 
culiar expression  of  indecision  that  betoken- 
eth  a  state  of  mind  in  which  a  person  know- 
eth not  what  to  do  with  himself,  though  he 
would  be  glad  to  be  anywhere  but  where  be 
was. 

'•  What  desperate  demon  put  thee  on  this 
mischief,"  continued  Mabel  in  the  same  force 
of  language  and  manner.  "  Canst  seek  such 
detestable  employment  and  live  ?  Hast  no 
sense  of  shame  ?  No  fear  of  punishment  ? 
No  dread  of  an  hereafter  ?  Look  at  what 
thou  art  about  to  do.  Hold  it  before  thy 
gaze  unshrinkingly,  if  thou  canst.  Doth 
not  thy  soul  shrink  in  disgust  at  entering 
upon  such  loathsomeness  ?  Man  !  If  thou 
hast  not  parted  with  every  tittle  of  the  de- 
cent pride  of  nature,  spurn  the  outrageous 
infamy  thou  wouldst  tlirust  thyself  into. — 
Get  thee  to  thy  employer,  and  tell  him  thou 
dost  abhor  such  inhuman  villainy,  or  thou 
wilt  be  hunted  through  the  world  like  some 
foul  fruit  of  monstrous  practices,  all  nature 
riseth  to  destroy  from  very  shame." 


166 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


The  villain  evidently  trembled,  and  the 
big  drops  starting  on  his  wrinkled  forehead, 
showed  how  deeply  he  was  moved. 

"  Rememberest  thou,  thou  hadst  once  a 
mother  ?"  added  the  foundling  in  a  deeper 
and  more  subduing  tone:  "think  of  her, 
friendless  as  1  am.  How  wouldst  thou  re- 
gard the  man  who  sulTered  himself  to  be- 
come the  tool  of  a  villainous  base  traitor,  to 
secure  his  doing  her  such  foul  wrong  as 
honesty  stands  aghast  to  contemplate  ? — 
Wouldst  not  be  ready  to  tear  his  heart  from 
his  breast,  and  trample  it  in  the  nighest 
dunghill,  to  rot  with  its  kindred  filth  ?  Canst 
behold  this  vileness  in  another  and  not  see 
it  in  thyself?  Thou  art  the  tool  for  com- 
passing this  mischief,  and  I  the  guiltless  ob- 
ject at  whicli  'tis  aimed.  If  I  have  done 
thee  any  wrong  I  will  do  all  possible  repara- 
tion. If  I  have  given  thee  any  offence,  I 
will  endure  any  corresponding  punishment. 
I  charge  thee  say  in  what  I  have  injured  thee, 
that  thou  shouidst  pursue  me  with  so  unna- 
tural a  hatred  !'*' 

"  Nay,  sweet  mistress,  I  have  never  re- 
ceived ill  at  your  hands,"  replied  the  man 
with  a  faltering  voice,  and  a  manner  tho- 
roughly ashamed.  '•  And  if  1  in  any  way 
assist  in  doing  of  you  an  injury,  may  1  be 
hanged  on  the  highest  gibbet  that  can  be 
found."  So  saying,  he  hurried  out  of  the 
chamber  so  completely  chap-fallen  as  no 
villain  had  ever  been  before.  He  immedi- 
ately sought  his  master,  and  found  him  alone. 

"  Ask  of  me  to  stab,  to  poison,  or  to  rob, 
and  1  care  not  to  refuse,"  exclaimed  he. 
"  But  if  I  am  caught  within  looking  or  talk- 
ing distance  of  that  wench  again,  I  will  eat 
myself  by  handfuls.  'Slight!  her  words 
and  glances  have  so  scourged  me,  I  would 
sooner  have  took  the  whipping-post  the  long- 
est day  o'  the  year,  than  have  endured  a 
tithe  of  such  punislnnent." 

"  Why,  thou  ape,  thou  beast,  thou  fool, 
thou  pestilent  knave  and  coward  !  what  dost 
mean  by  this  ?"  cried  his  master  in  as  great 
rage  as  astonishment.  "  Wouldst  spoil  the 
goodliest  j)lot  that  ever  was  devised ;  and 
mar  the  making  of  our  fortunes  when  we 
are  sure  of  success  ?" 

"  Truly,  I  care  not  if  I  do,"  said  the  man 
doggedly.  "  But  I  will  bo  no  mean  for  the 
doing  of  her  any  miscbief.  I  will  assist 
thee  in  any  decent  villainy,  but  if  ever  I 
meddle  with  her  again,  I'll  forswear  living." 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  other  tried  by 
promises  and  then  by  threats  to  turn  his 
companion's  resolution  ;  and  the  result  was, 
Mabel  was  left  at  peace  till  some  more  wil- 
ling agent  could  be  found. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  passion  of  the  youth- 


ful Shakspeare  for  the  yeoman's  blooming 
daughter  continued  to  develope  itself  with 
increased  fervor,  despite  of  the  usurer's 
warning ;  and  Joim  Hathaway  witli  his  own 
notions  of  the  matter,  at  last  on  one  of  his 
usual  evening  visits,  bluntly  asked  him  how 
he  should  like  his  fair  mistress  for  a  wife ; 
whereupon,  as  might  be  expected,  the  young 
lover  answered  nought  in  this  world  would 
make  him  so  happy.  Then  the  father  grave- 
ly inquired  into  his  means  of  supporting  a 
wife,  at  which  his  companion  looked  the 
gravest  of  the  two,  and  acknowledged  that 
all  he  had  was  the  wage  he  received  from 
Master  Catchpole,  which  scarce  sufficed  to 
keep  him  in  shoe  leather;  and  that  the  yeo- 
man looked  monstrous  concerned,  and  be- 
gan to  preach  a  notable  fine  homily  on  the 
necessity  of  marrying  with  sutScient  provi- 
sion, to  all  of  which  the  young  poet  had  not 
a  word  of  reply  ;  but  sat  in  a  very  desperate 
unliappiness,  fully  convinced  every  hope  of 
gaining  his  dear  mistress  was  at  an  end. 

"  1  tell  thoe  what  it  is,  friend  Will,"  said 
John  Hathaway,  after  regarding  his  compan- 
ion's doleful  visage  till  he  found  he  could  no 
longer  disguise  the  sly  pleasure  he  was  him- 
self enjoying  all  the  time,  "  Keep  thy  heart 
above  thy  girdle,  I  prithee.  I  and  thy  hon- 
est father  settled  the  matter  yester-eve,  over 
a  full  tankard.  Thou  shalt  be  married  at 
Lammas,  and  shalt  lack  nothing  for  thy  par- 
ticular comfort  I  can  procure  thee.  A  fair 
good  night  to  thee,  son  Will."  Before  the 
delighted  lover  could  recover  from  his  ex- 
ceeding astonishment  at  this  welcome  intel- 
ligence, his  intended  father-in-law,  mayliap 
the  most  pleased  of  the  two,  had  made  his 
way  to  his  bed-chamber. 

Every  hour  of  the  intervening  time  went 
joyfully  with  the  youthful  Shakspeare. — 
Even  the  musty  parchments  and  dull  law 
writings  took  a  pleasant  countenance  at  this 
period,  and  he  labored  so  diligently  and  so 
mucli  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  master,  with 
whom  he  had  become  in  famous  esteem  for 
his  cleverness  at  his  duties,  that  he  hearing 
of  liis  coming  marriage,  promised  him  a 
week's  holidays  previous  to  his  wedding-day, 
that  he  might  the  better  emi)loy  himself  in 
the  necessary  preparations,  and  a  week  after 
his  nuptials,  that  he  might  have  sufficient 
space  to  enjoy  himself  to  his  heart's  content. 

But  the  little  lawyer  was  a  marvellous 
shrewd  person.  He  suspected  did  he  not 
get  rid  of  his  clerk  at  such  a  time,  he  would 
be  marring  of  everything  he  put  his  liand 
to  by  thinking  of  other  matters. 

The  we(>k  jirevious  to  the  wedding  had 
arrived,  and  the  young  lover  was  in  such  a 
state  of  happy  expectation  as  lovers  at  such 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


157 


a  time  only  can  know.  His  cheerful,  free 
humor  had  made  him  an  especial  favorite  of 
the  young  men  of  his  own  age,  who  could 
claim  with  him  any  sort  of  acquaintance, 
and  now  more  than  ever  his  heart  was  open 
to  every  appearance  of  sociality.  His  ap- 
proaching marriage  became  known  over  the 
town,  and  this  led  many  to  ask  him  to  par- 
take with  him  a  friendly  draught,  that  they 
might  wish  him  all  manner  of  happiness,  the 
which  He  could  not  without  an  unbecoming 
discourtesy  refuse,  consequently,  when  he 
was  not  in  company  with  his  dear  mistress, 
of  whom  by  reason  of  her  being  in  almost 
constant  occupation  preparing  for  this  great 
festival  of  her  life,  he  saw  only  for  a  brief 
space  each  day,  he  was  engaged  in  social 
revelling  with  his  friends.  Perchance  some 
of  these,  being  of  an  idle  turn,  and  of  some- 
what unbridled  inclinations,  were  not  the 
very  properest  companions  he  should  have 
chosen,  but  he  knew  of  nought  to  their  par- 
ticular disadvantages,  and  their  exceeding 
friendliness  towards  him,  in  his  present  hu- 
mor, made  him  readily  embrace  any  frolic 
they  wished  him  to  share  in.  Tliey  pro- 
posed that  to  make  the  wedding  feast  the 
more  perfect,  tliey  should  go  together  over 
night  and  kill  a  deer,  and  as  this  was  re- 
garded by  persons  of  his  condition  at  that 
period  as  a  mere  customary  youthful  frolic, 
be  readily  promised  to  be  of  the  party. 

It  chanced  to  happen,  that  afternoon,  as 
they  were  standing  together  at  the  inn  door, 
who  should  come  by  but  Oliver  Dumps,  the 
constable,  having  as  his  prisoners  no  less 
important  personages  tlian  Sir  Nathaniel, 
the  curate,  and  Stripes,  the  scholmaster. — 
The  cause  of  which  was,  that  these  two  had 
become  such  inveterate  offenders  in  the  way 
of  drunkenness,  and  Oliver  was  so  desirous 
of  showing  himself  the  Queen's  proper  offi- 
cer, that  he  had  at  last  come  to  the  deter- 
mination of  putting  them  both  in  the  stocks ; 
and  to  the  stocks,  which  lay  convenient  to 
the  inn,  in  the  market-place,  the  constable 
was  bringing  them,  making  the  dolefulest 
lamentation,  by  the  way,  of  the  horrid  wick- 
edness of  the  world  that  had  forced  him  to 
so  exercise  his  authority.  It  was  amusing 
enough  of  all  conscience  to  the  throng  of 
children  and  idlers  that  so  novel  an  incident 
had  brought  together,  to  note  the  manner  in 
which  the  two  offenders  bore  themselves  as 
they  were  carried  along.  The  schoolmaster 
hung  his  head  as  if  he  felt  a  little  ashamed 
of  his  situation,  but  the  curate  assumed  an 
air  of  dignity  so  monstrously  ridiculous,  none 
could  look  on  it  in  any  seriousness.  Pre- 
sently the  board  was  opened,  their  legs 
placed  in  the  holes,  and  having  had  it  fas- 


tened down  on  them  with  a  strong  padlock, 
they  were  left  to  their  own  reflections. 

Sir  Nathaniel,  seated  on  a  low  stool,  with 
his  fat  legs  stuck  fast  in  the  board,  seemed 
not  at  ail  comfortable  ;  and  Stripes,  hanging 
of  his  head,  with  his  thin  shanks  dangling 
through  the  holes,  looked  amazing  sheepish. 
The  curate  glanced  feelingly  at  the  school- 
master, and  the  schoolmaster  turned  a  simi- 
lar look  of  suffering  at  the  curate. 

"  Hard  lying, — ey,  Ticklebreech  ?"  ex- 
claimed Sir  Nathaniel,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Monstrous  !"  replied  Stripes,  in  as  sad  a 
tone  as  ever  was  heard.  It  was  evident  the 
curate  was  not  well  pleased  with  his  seat, 
for  he  turned  on  one  side  and  then  on  the 
other,  and  then  supported  himself  with  his 
hands  behind,  with  a  visage  as  woeful  as 
drunken  man  ever  wore. 

"  I  would  these  pestilent  stocks  had  been 
a  thousand  miles  away,  and  be  hanged  to 
'em  !"  cried  the  uncomfortable  Sir  Nathani- 
el, with  an  earnestness  that  bespoke  his  sin- 
cerity. 

"  I'faith  so  would  I,  an'  it  please  your 
reverence  !"  answered  the  pedagogue,  with 
more  than  ordinary  fervor.  As  the  minutes 
passed,  neither  appeared  to  grow  a  whit 
more  satisfied  with  his  situation.  The  crim- 
son face  of  the  one  every  n^oment  took  a 
deeper  hue,  and  the  lanthorn  jaws  of  the 
other  assumed  an  increasing  elongation. 

"  Too  much  drinkin's  a  villainous  bad 
thing.  Pedagogue  !"  said  the  curate,  with  a 
notable  emphasis  that  showed  how  convinc- 
ed he  was  of  the  truth  of  his  assertion. 

"  Horrible !"  replied  Stripes,  evidently  in  a 
like  assurance. 

"  I  marvel  a  man  should  be  so  huge  an 
ass  as  to  be  ever  addling  his  brains  with 
abominable  filthy  liquor,"  continued  his 
companion.  "  For  mine  own  part,  I  would 
such  vile  stuff  was  put  clean  out  o'  the  land. 
I  hate  it.  But  'tis  all  the  fault  of  those  base, 
thorough-going  rogues  of  tapsters,  who  se- 
duce one's  innocence  ;  and  then,  when  the 
draughts  have  become  in  any  number, 
straightway  take  to  asking  for  payment. 
What  infamous  villainy!" 

"  Marvellous,  o'  my  word  !"  exclaimed  the 
other, 

"  Well,  an'  they  catch  me  drinking  any 
more  of  their  abominable  potations,  I'll  turn 
hermit,"  observed  Sir  Nathaniel,  in  a  greater 
earnestness.  "  'Sprecious  !  there  is  no  ho- 
nesty in  swallowing  anything  of  the  sort. — 
Ale  is  against  all  Christian  doctrine,  and 
wine  is  scarce  fit  for  a  Jew.  Not  a  drop 
of  such  deceitful  base  wash  shall  pollute  my 
throat.  Wilt  taste  any  more  on't,  Tickle- 
breech ?" 


158 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  Never !  an'  it  please  your  reverence," 
cried  the  schoolmaster  monstrous  determin- 
edly. The  whole  of  this  little  scene  of  re- 
formation had  been  heard  and  witnessed  by 
the  youthful  Sliakspeare  and  his  companions, 
to  their  exceeding  amusement ;  and  soon  af- 
ter, one  of  the  former  came  before  the  topers, 
carrying  of  an  ale-can  frotliing  over  at  the 
top. 

"  Thinking  thou  cannot  help  being  terri- 
athirst  sitting  there  so  uncomfortably,  I  have 
brought  thee  a  draught  of  right  good  liquor," 
said  he,  very  carefully  laying  down  the  can 
within  a  short  distance  of  them,  and  then  re- 
turning to  his  comj)anions. 

"  I  thank  Uiee,  boy — I  thank  thee  ;  my 
tongue  cleaveth  to  my  mouth,  1  am  so  dry," 
replied  the  curate,  eagerly  sU-etching  out  his 
arm  towards  the  vessel ;  but  it  was  beyond 
his  reach  :  thereupon  he  earnestly  moved  his 
companion  to  bring  it  him  ;  and  Stripes,  ma- 
nifestly no  less  eagerly,  stretched  out  his 
whole  length  of  hmb,  but  could  only  get  with- 
in an  inch  of  it. 

"  Now,  Pedagogus  !"  cried  his  companion 
pushing  the  other  with  all  his  might  over 
the  stocks,  "  prithee,  send  thy  hand  a  little 
farther.  Stretch  away,  Ticklebreech !  Thou 
hast  it  within  a  hair's  bre:i  dth  ;  now,  give  it 
a  fair  grasp  and  'tis  ours."  But  it  was  all 
labor  in  vain  ;  Stripes  stretched,  and  Sir 
Nathaniel  pushed  with  equal  desire  ;  but  all 
their  united  exertions  only  succeeded  in 
bringing  the  schoolmaster's  lingers  to  touch 
the  tantalizing  ale-can  ;  and,  at  last.  Stripes 
roared  out  he  could  endure  no  more  squeez- 
ing, for  his  body  was  pressed  against  the 
edge  of  the  board  with  a  force  tliat  threat- 
ened to  cut  him  in  two.  Whilst  both  were 
lamenting  the  hardness  of  their  fortune,  up 
came  another  of  the  young  men,  and  pushed 
the  can  a  little  nearer  and  went  his  way. — 
The  schoolmaster  in  u  moment  liad  it  in  his 
careful  hold,  but  the  other  greedily  snatched 
it  out  of  his  hand,  claiming  the  lirst  draught 
as  due  to  his  superiority,  and  quickly  raised 
it  to  his  lips.  He  had  not  swallowed  more 
than  a  mouthful  or  two  when  he  dashed 
down  the  can,  spluttered  out  what  he  was 
swallowing,  and  made  one  of  the  most  dis- 
satisfied countenances  ever  seen,  to  the  ex- 
ceeding astonishment  of  his  companion  and 
the  infinite  delight  of  the  spectators.  The 
can,  instead  of  "right  good  liquor,"  con- 
tained nothing  better  tlian  a  mess  of  soap- 
suds, fetched  by  the  merry  knave  who  of- 
fered it,  from  a  tub  in  which  the  maids  of 
the  inn  were  washing  the  household  linen. 

Whilst  the  enraged  curate  was  making  of 
all  maimer  of  strange,  forbidding  grimaces, 
and  abusing  those  who  had  put  so  unpalata- 


ble a  jest  on  him  in  most  outrageous  chol- 
eric terms,  there  rode  up  to  him  a  very  se- 
date old  gentleman,  with  others  in  his  com- 
pany, who  regarded  Sir  Nathaniel  and  his 
companion  with  a  singular  severe  scrutiny. 
In  consequence  of  continued  complaints  made 
by  divers  of  the  worthy  burgesses  of  Strat- 
ford, concerning  of  the  unsemely  behavior 
of  their  parson  and  schoolmaster,  the  bishop 
of  that  diocese  had  determined  to  look  into 
their  conduct,  and  had  arrived  in  the  town, 
with  his  retinue,  where,  alter  inquiring  for 
the  curate,  he  had  been  directed  to  the  stocks. 
The  result  of  this  visit  was  both  Sir  Na- 
thaniel and  Stripes  were  a  very  short  time 
after  dismissed  from  their  offices,  and  driven 
out  of  the  place  tliey  had  so  long  disgraced 
by  their  presence. 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly  in  the  starry 
sky,  when  William  Sliakspeare,  armed  with 
John  Hathaway's  gun,  and  accompanied 
by  three  or  four  of  his  associates,  to 
help  to  cany  the  gtime,  crept  cautiously 
through  the  shrubberies  tliat  skirted  the 
park,  where  he  knew  deer  in  plenty  were 
to  be  found.  Hitherto  all  his  shooting  had 
been  directed  against  small  birds  and  coneys, 
but  now  he  looked  for  nobler  spoil.  Having 
made  a  long  circuit  to  avoid  being  noticed, 
he  came  to  a  grove  of  thick  trees — his  com- 
panions keeping  a  little  behind  him — where, 
after  he  had  advanced  stealthily  along  for 
about  a  hundred  yards,  he  beheld  a  goodly 
company  of  fallow  deer,  some  lying,  some 
standing,  and  most  of  them  cropping  the 
herbage  at  the  edge  of  the  grove,  where  the 
open  pasture  sweeps  up  to  tlie  trees.  Tak- 
ing the  wind  in  his  face,  the  young  deer- 
stealer  crept  from  tree  to  tree,  pausing 
behind  each  to  mark  if  the  game  was  dis- 
turbed, tlien  proceeding  noiselessly  in  the 
same  direction.  He  never  remembered  hav- 
ing felt  such  excitement — he  could  scarce 
breathe,  he  was  so  moved.  He  had  singled 
out  the  tallest  buck  of  the  herd,  that  stootl 
like  a  sentinel,  a  httle  nigher  to  him  than 
the  rest,  seeming  to  sniff' the  air,  and  stamp- 
ing with  his  foot  as  if  he  suspected  some 
danger,  and  knew  not  whence  it  was  com- 
ing. William  Sliakspeare  crouched  behind 
the  trunk  of  a  neighboring  tree,  as  still  as  a 
stone,  afraid  that  the  very  beating  of  his 
heart  would  betray  him.  His  companions 
laid  themselves  down  in  the  grass  as  soon 
as  they  caught  siglit  of  the  deer.  He  pee}x>d 
from  behind  his  hiding  place,  and  beheld  tlie 
buck  quietly  cropping  the  herbage  with  his 
back  towards  him.  He  then  looked  at  his 
gun,  and  saw  everytiiiiig  was  as  it  should 
be.  His  great  anxiety  now  was  to  reach  an 
old  decayed   stumi) — the  ruin  of  what  had 


THE  YOUTH  OF  Sm\KSPEARE. 


]i»9 


once  been  the  finest  of  the  whole  grove — 
which  lay  between  liim  and  his  game.  He 
issued  from  his  hiding  place  as  if  his  life 
depended  on  the  quietness  of  his  footsteps, 
and  to  his  wondrous  satisfaction  succeeded 
in  gaining  the  desired  place  without  being 
discovered.  Yet  it  was  manifest  the  buck 
was  in  some  way  alarmed,  for  the  young 
deer  stealer  liad  scarce  concealed  himself 
when  he  turned  sharply  round,  looking  now 
in  this  direction  and  now  in  that,  and  stamp- 
ing with  more  violence  tlian  before.  Tlie 
stump  was  completely  open  from  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  youthful  Shakspeare  ap- 
proached it  ;  and  inside  were  seats  all  round, 
for  it  was  so  large  it  would  accommodate 
many  ;  just  under  the  bench  a  hole  had  been 
gnawed  or  broken  away,  and  to  this  he  cau- 
tiously raised  his  head  as  he  lay  his  full 
length  on  the  ground  ;  then  lifted  he  the 
barrel  of  his  gun,  and  as  the  deer  was  glan- 
cing suspiciously  in  the  direction  of  his 
concealment,  he  took  a  fair  aim  at  his  open 
breast  and  fired.  The  whole  herd  disap- 
peared in  a  moment. 

"Bravo,  Will!" cried  one  of  his  compan- 
ions, hastily  running  up  to  the  spot,  "  thou 
has  killed  the  delicatest  bit  of  venison  I  have 
seen  tliis  many  a  day." 

Sure  enough,  the  buck  lay  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  where  he  stood  awliile  since, 
t^hot  through  the  heart ;  overjoyed  at  their 
success,  they  bound  his  four  legs  together, 
intending  to  carry  him  away  on  a  long  tliick 
staff  they  had  brought  with  them.  I 

"Run!  Will,  run!  Here  be  the  keep- | 
ers  !"  all  at  once  shouted  another  of  them  ; 
and  on  the  instant,  as  if  they  had  wings  to 
their  legs,  every  one  ran  in  different  direc- 
tions. The  young  Shakspeare  caught  up 
his  gun  to  follow  their  example,  without  loss 
of  time,  but  he  found  himself  in  the  grasp  of 
two  stout  fellows,  with  whom  he  soon  saw 
it  was  useless  struggling.  These  were  the 
two  sons  of  Sampson,  tiie  gamekeeper,  who 
with  their  father,  had  been  watching  from 
behind  the  trees  tlie  whole  scene  ;  and  not 
caring  to  pursue  the  others,  they  pounced 
upon  the  unlucky  deer-stealer  .n  the  very 
act  of  committing  his  offence.  Sampson 
carried  the  slain  deer  and  the  gun,  and  his 
sons  bore  their  prisoner  to  the  lodge  at 
Daisy  Hill.  They  abused  him  somewhat  at 
first,  but  he  managed  to  gain  on  their  good 
Avill  as  they  proceeded  ;  and  when  they  arri- 
ved at  the  place  where  they  intended  confin- 
ing him  till  they  could  take  him  before  the 
justice  at  a  proper  hour  in  the  morning,  the 
father  ordered  a  tankard  of  ale  to  refresh 
himself  witiial. 

Who  should  bring  it  in  but  his  fair  ac- , 
6 


quaintance,  Kate,  the  gamekeeper's  pretty 
neice,  whom  !ie  had  met  many  times  since 
he  first  had  sight  of  her  when  she  waited  on 
him  at  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's.  She  was  fa- 
mously surprised  I  doubt  not,  at  beholding 
him  there,  and  more  so  when  slie  learned 
what  occasion  brought  him  ;  but  she  had  the 
wit  not  so  much  as  to  recognize  him  before 
her  uncle  and  cousins.  As  for  the  culprit, 
as  he  believed  his  punishment  would  be  but 
trifling,  the  offence  was  generally  considered 
so  slight,  he  took  the  matter  very  pleasantly, 
and  so  amused  his  captors  by  his  merry 
jests  and  liis  excellent  famous  singing,  that 
they  ordered  jug  after  jug  of  ale,  and  sung 
their  songs  and  made  their  jests,  and  swore 
he  was  the  drollest  knave  they  ever  came 
anigh.  Each  of  these  men  drank  without 
stint,  and  Kate  seemed  to  take  care  they 
should  have  as  much  as  they  could  fancy ; 
j  but  their  prisoner  sipped  sparingly,  and 
the  result  was,  in  two  or  three  hours  after 
his  capture,  Sampson  and  his  two  sons  were 
snoring  in  their  chairs,  and  their  prisoner 
was  conveyed  out  of  the  chamber  by  his 
kind  confederate. 

I  doubt  though  she  would  have  shown 
him  any  such  good  service  had  she  known 
he  was  to  be  married  that  very  day,  for  she 
gave  him  no  lack  of  signs  she  was  more  than 
ordinary  fond  of  him.  What  passed  between 
them  the  few  minutes  she  detained  him  in 
the  kitchen,  hath  never  been  correctly  ascer- 
tained, therefore  I  cannot  describe  it  to  the 
courteous  reader  ;  but  at  the  last  moment 
of  it  she  helped  him  to  put  the  slain  deer, 
there  lying,  to  hang  by  his  gun,  over  his 
shoulder  ;  then  she  opened  the  door  for  him 
— and  tlien  he  made  the  best  of  his  way 
homevrards. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Your  master  is  to  be  married  to-day  1 
Else  all  this  rosemary  is  lost. 

MiDDLETON. 

Come  strew  apace.     Lord  !  shall  I  never  live 
To  walke  to  church  on  flowers  ?  O'  tis  fine 
To  see  a  bride  trip  it  to  church  so  lightly. 
As  if  her  new  choppines  would  scorn  to  brush 
A  silly  flower. 

Bajbry. 

"  O'  MY  Christian  conscience,  the  mon- 
strousness  of  this  world  passeth  belief!" 
exclaimed  Oliver  Dumps,  in  his  miserablest 
manner,  as  he  flung  himself  into  a  seat  in 
the  chimney  corner  of  the  widow  Pippin's 
comfortable   kitchen — a   place    he  seemed 


160 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


more  partial  to  than  any  other  in  all  Strat- 
ford. 

"  Why,  what's  i'  the  wind  now,  master 
constable?"  inquired  the  laughing  widow, 
as  she  brought  her  visitor  his  customary 
tankard,  dressed  more  gaily  than  she  had 
been  seen  for  many  years. 

The  melancholy  Dumps  looked  up  to  her 
jolly  features  and  sighed  heavily  ;  took  a 
draught  of  the  tankard  and  siglied  again. 
'Tis  a  villainous  world,  that's  the  truth  on't," 
said  he  shaking  his  head  very  woefully. 

"  Villainous  fiddlestick  I"  replied  his 
merry  companion.  "  By  my  fackings,  the 
world  be  a  right  pleasant  world,  and  is  as 
full  of  delectable  jests  as  world  can  be." 

"  Only  tliink  of  young  Will  Shakspeare 
taking  to  deer  stealing,"  observed  the  con- 
stable, gravely. 

"  Who  ?  Will  Shakspeare !"  cried  the 
widow,  with  a  look  of  exceeding  astonish- 
ment. » 

"  Taken  by  the  keepers  in  the  very  act," 
replied  Oliver  Dumps.  "  Conveyed  by  them 
to  the  lodge  at  Daisy  Hill,  for  the  night. 
Made  his  escape  in  a  most  unaccountable 
manner,  carrying  oft'  the  deer  he  had  slain, 
and  the  gun  he  had  done  it  with.  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy  had  issued  a  warrant  for  his 
apprehension,  I  have  it  to  execute  on  him 
without  delay  ;  and  hearing  he  is  at  John 
Hathaway's  cottage,  about  to  be  married, 
am  going  there  to  carry  him  before  his 
worship  " 

"  Tilly  vally  !  thou  art  jesting,  master 
constable,"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Will 
Shakspeare  is  not  like  to  do  anything  of  the 
sort,  I  will  be  bound  for  it." 

The  queen's  proper  officer  looked  into  his 
pouch,  took  out  a  iblded  piece  of  paper,  and 
gave  into  her  hands. 

"  That's  the  warrant,"  said  he. 

"  An  honest  neighbor,  that  is  now  in  my 
parlor,  shall  read  it  to  me,  seeing  I  cannot 
read  a  word  of  it  myself,"  answered  the 
widow  Pippins  ;  "  and  as  I  am  going  to 
John  Hathaway's  as  soon  as  I  have  got  on 
my  hat  and  muftlcr,  if  thou  wilt  wait  a  brief 
while,  we  will  walk  together."  The  con- 
stable promised  to  wait  any  reasonable  time, 
for  in  truth  he  was  well  pleased  to  have  her 
company,  he,  as  many  shrewdly  imagined, 
having  long  been  seeking  to  be  her  sixth 
luisband  ;  and  thereupon  the  widow  went  to 
get  the  warrant  explained  to  her. 

A  short  time  before  tliis  took  place,  a  pro- 
cession moved  from  the  yeoman's  cottage, 
in  the  direction  of  the  church  which,  me- 
thinks,  deserveth  here  to  be  set  down.  First 
rode  an  old  churl,  blowing  of  such  a  peal  on 
his  bagpipes  as  if  he   was  determined  to 


expend  his  wind  as  quickly  as  he  could,  hig 
long  pipes  and  his  cap  decked  with  rosemary 
— then  followed  a  merry  company  of  lusty 
lads  and  bold  bachelors  of  the  neighborhood, 
two  and  two,  in  their  holiday  jerkins,  every 
one  clean  trussed,  with  a  blue  buckram 
bride  lace  upon  a  branch  of  roseman,-,  upon 
his  left  arm,  on  horses  of  all  sorts  and  col- 
ors ;  William  Shakspeare,  the  bridegroom, 
riding  at  their  head  in  a  new  suit  ol  frolic 
green,  gaily  decked  with  ribbons,  with  a 
branch  of  rosemary  at  his  cap,  and  a  true 
love  posey  at  his  breast ;  and  on  each  side 
rode  a  bridesman,  in  tawney  worsted  jackets, 
straw  hats  on  their  heads  with  a  steeple 
crown,  and  harvest  gloves  on  their  hands, 
similarly  appointed  with  ribbons,  rosemary, 
and  posies.  All  the  way  he  went,  the  bride- 
groom pulled  olf  his  cap  courteously  to  the 
spectators,  who,  seeing  so  gallant  a  youth, 
could  not  help  loudly  greeting  him  with  their 
good  wishes. 

Then  came  a  company  of  morris-dancers 
on  foot,  jingling  it  very  prettily,  with  a  most 
moving  accompaniment  of  pipe  and  tabor. 
After  them,  six  fair  maidens  in  fair  white 
court-pics  and  orange  tawney  kirtles,  gar- 
landed with  wreaths  of  wheat,  finely  gilded, 
on  their  heads,  and  casting  of  flowers,  by  I 
handfuls,  out  of  small  wicker  baskets,  gaily  f 
decked  for  the  occasion.  Then  came  the 
two  bridemaids,  most  daintily  tired,  carrying 
before  them  each  a  large  spice  cake,  fol- 
lowed by  the  bride's  brother,  a  fair  boy, 
carrying  himself  very  bravely,  choicely  ap- 
parelled, bearing  the  parcel-gilt  bride-cup, 
full  of  sweet  ippocras,  with  a  goodly  branch 
of  rosemary  gilded  and  hung  about  with 
ribbons  of  all  colors  streaming  in  the  wind  ; 
next  came  Anne  Hathaway,  the  blushing 
blooming  bride — her  apparelling  of  appro- 
priate whiteness,  rarely  garnished  with  ril)- 
bons  and  flowers,  her  hair  curiously  combed 
and  plaited,  and  crowned  W'ith  a  garland  of 
white  roses — answering  very  gracefully  the 
hearty  salutations  of  iier  neighbors.  On 
each  side  of  her  walked  a  fair  boy,  with 
bride  laces  and  rosemary  tied  about  his 
silken  sleeves.  After  these,  several  musi- 
cians, with  flutes,  sackbuts,  and  other  deli- 
cate instruments,  made  excellent  music. 
Then  rode  the  father  of  the  bride,  between 
the  father  and  mother  of  the  bridegroom,  in 
their  holiday  garments,  with  no  lack  of 
proper  garnishing  ;  and,  lastly,  came  the 
friends  invited  to  the  bride-ale,  also  wearing 
of  their  best  suits,  decorated  witli  bride  laces 
and  rosemary. 

In  this  order  they  readied  the  churcli  at 
a  slow  pace,  where  the  priest  soon  did  his 
office  for  them ;  the   bride-cup    was  then 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


161 


emptied  by  the  company  to  tlie  health  and 
happiness  of  the  new-mamed  folks  ;  and 
they  returned  in  much  tiie  same  fashion  as 
they  went,  save  that  the  bride  rode  on  a  pil- 
lion behind  the  bridegroom.  John  Hatha- 
way's  dwelling  would  scarce  hold  the  guests; 
but  they  managed  to  accommodate  them- 
selves pretty  well,  for  every  room  was  thrown 
open,  hlled  with  a  most  bountiful  provision 
of  things  for  convenience  and  honest  cheer, 
beside  which  there  lay  the  orchard,  the  pad- 
dock, and  the  garden,  for  any  that  chose  out 
of  door  pastime.  The  revels  that  followed 
exceed  description — all  sorts  of  games  were 
going  on  in  every  direction — here  a  blind 
harper  singing  of  ballads  to  a  well-pleased 
audience,  of  all  ages — there  sundry  young 
people,  sitting  in  a  circle  with  one  in  the 
midst,  playing  at  hunt  the  slipper — another 
set  at  barley  break — a  third  at  a  dance — the 
old,  the  )'oung,  the  middle-aged,  maidens 
and  bachelors,  husbands,  wives,  widows, 
and  widowers,  striving  all  they  could  to  enjoy 
the  pleasant  humor  of  the  hour. 

Among  the  company  were  many  of  the 
courteous  reader's  old  acquaintances  ;  for 
in  the  principal  chamber  were  Master  Al- 
derman Malmsey,  and  his  neighbor  Master 
Alderman  Dowlas,  like  marvellous  proper 
husbands  as  they  were,  attending  on  their 
still  comely  good-humored  wives — there  was 
the  widow  Pippins,  with  a  famous  laughing 
countenance,  that  seemed  to  savor  of  a  jest 
— there  was  honest  John  Shakspeare  and 
Ids  matronly  sweet  wife,  looking  such  satis- 
faction as  'tis  impossible  to  describe — there 
was  the  manly  yeoman,  goinjr  about  with 
his  sly  pleasantry,  more  manifest  than  ever, 
as  he  looked  to  see  all  were  enjoying  them- 
selves to  their  heart's  content — there  was 
the  blooming  bride,  and  there  the  gallant 
bridegroom,  m  exquisite  content  with  them- 
selves and  the  whole  world  ;  and  with  these 
were  also  a  many  others,  whose  names  I 
have  forgotten.  Still  one  more  requireth 
my  notice,  and  he  was  no  other  than  Oliver 
Dumps,  who  sat  in  a  corner,  looking  mon- 
strous miserable,  though  each  of  the  prettiest 
women  was  ever  coming  up  to  him  with  all 
manner  of  delicacies,  pressing  him  to  partake 
of  them,  and  smiling  on  him  as  she  smiled 
on  no  one  else  in  the  room.  But  the  more 
good  cheer  he  made  the  more  miserable  he 
looked.  In  fact  he  was  not  at  all  at  his 
ease.  He  wished  to  prove  himself  the 
queen's  proper  officer,  without  favor  of  any 
person,  and  yet  he  liked  not  interrupting  the 
mirth  of  so  bountiful  a  company. 

It  appeared  as  if  there  was  some  conspi- 
racy among  the  women — doubtless  set  on 
by  the  merry  widow,  who  seemed  very  busy 
11 


amongst  them,  whispering,  laughing,  and 
pointing  to  the  constable — for  they  would 
not  allow  him  to  remain  by  himself  a  mo- 
ment, and  kept  insisting  so  winningly  on  his 
drinking  the  delicious  draughts  tliey  brought, 
that  he  found  he  could  do  nothing,  save,  with 
a  pitiful  sighing,  the  performing  of  their 
requests.  At  last,  with  a  sudden  great  effort, 
he  broke  from  a  circle  of  them  and  gravely 
walked  up  to  the  bridegroom.  To  the  mar- 
vel of  the  greater  number  of  the  guests,  he 
claimed  William  Shakspeare  as  his  prisoner, 
and  commanded  him  to  accompany  him  on 
the  instant  to  his  worship  the  justice. 

"  Eh !  what  dost  say  ?"  exclaimed  John 
Hathaway,  advancing  hurriedly,  with  divers 
others,  there  present,  to  know  the  meaning 
of  such  strange  behavior. 

"  Deer  stealing !"  hiccuped  the  constable, 
evidently  with  his  senses  somewhat  confused 
by  the  many  draughts  of  strong  wine  he  had 
been  forced  to  swallow,  yet  holding  himself 
up  with  what  he  considered  to  be  the  true 
dignity  of  the  queen's  proper  officer. 

"  Nay,  it  cannot  be,  worthy  Master 
Dumps,"  said  Mistress  Malmsey,  coaxingly, 
on  one  side  of  him. 

"  'Tis  a  mistake,  depend  on't,  sweet  sir," 
added  Mistress  Dowlas,  in  an  equally  insin- 
uating manner. 

"  Don't  believe  any  thing  of  the  sort, 
good  Oliver,"  said  one  of  the  buxom  bride- 
maids,  pulling  him  affectionately  by  the  arm. 

"  'Tis  impossible  so  sensible  a  person  as 
you  are  can  give  ear  to  so  incredible  a  story," 
said  another,  taking  a  like  pretty  liberty  with 
his  other  elbow.  Oliver  Dumps  heard  all 
these  seducing  expressions,  and  glanced  from 
one  to  the  other  of  tlie  bewitching  aspects 
of  the  speakers,  with  a  monstrous  struggling 
in  his  breast,  and  then  with  a  becoming 
gravity,  as  he  thought,  took  a  paper  from  his 
pouch. 

"  Here's  the  warrant,"  answered  ho.  John 
Hathaway  received  the  paper  from  him,  un- 
folded it,  and  commenced,  in  an  exceeding 
droll  manner,  reading  a  ballad  there  printed, 
which  was  famous  popular  at  the  time,  be- 
ginning— 

"  Alas,  my  love  !   you  do  me  wrong, 

To  cast  me  off  discourteously  ; 
And  I  have  loved  you  so  long, 
Delighting  in  your  company. 

Greensleeves  was  all  my  joy, 
Greensleeves  was  my  delight, 
Greensleeves  was  my  hart  of  gold. 
And  who  but  Lady  Greensleeves  V 

Oliver  Dumps  looked  quite  confounded, 
for  he  saw  the  jest  that  the  merry  widow 
had  played  upon  him.     The  laughing  and 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


joking  of  those  around  him  he  took  as  pleas- 
antly as  he  could,  which  in  sooth  was  rather 
of  A  miserable  sort — for  he  liked  not  confess- 
ing how  he  had  been  tricked  ;  and  the  end 
of  it  was,  the  queen's  proper  officer  allowed 
himself  to  join  in  the  festivity  of  the  day 
as  regardless  of  warrants  and  justices,  as 
though  he  intended  to  play  the  constable  no 
more.  However,  the  affair  of  the  deer  steal- 
ing went  not  off"  so  quietly.  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy  when  he  heard  of  it  was  in  a  terrible 
rage,  and  when  he  found  the  offender  was 
not  brought  before  him,  he  waxed  more 
wroth  than  before.  Other  warrants  were 
issued,  and  other  constables  employed,  and 
the  next  morning  the  young  deer-stealer 
was  dragged  into  the  justice-room,  followed 
by  such  of  his  friends  who  had  gained  know- 
ledge of  his  capture.  The  news,  however, 
soon  spread,  and  occasioned  a  notable  com- 
motion. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  astonishment  of 
Jemmy  Catchpole  when  he  beheld  his  clerk 
brought  before  him  in  custody  on  such  a 
charge  ;  but  being  a  shrewd  man  he  did  not 
so  much  as  recognize  him.  The  justice 
entered  into  the  charge  with  much  the  same 
formalities  as  had  been  exhibited  by  him  and 
his  attendants  on  a  previous  occasion — 
abusing  tlie  prisoner  with  great  bitterness, 
and  allowing  of  none  to  say  a  word  in  his 
defence.  The  evidence  of  the  keepers  proved 
the  offence  beyond  all  contradiction,  and 
when  Sir  Thomas  demanded  of  the  offender 
to  give  up  the  names  of  all  those  who  were 
participating  with  him  in  the  offence,  and 
the  latter  would  not  tell  the  name  of  so 
much  as  one  person,  the  justice  broke  out  in 
such  a  passion,  there  never  was  tlie  like. 
This  the  prisoner  endured  with  a  composure 
which  exasperated  the  other  the  more,  as  it 
seemed  so  like  holding  him  in  contempt,  and 
setting  his  authority  at  nought.  He  threat- 
ened him  with  the  pillory,  the  whipping-post, 
and  even  the  gibbet,  but  still  William  Shaks- 
peare  was  not  to  be  got  to  betray  his  com- 
panions. He  smiled  at  the  threats,  and, 
with  a  fearless  aspect,  confessed  he  alone 
had  committed  the  offence,  and  that  he  was 
ready  to  receive  the  punishment. 

The  consUiblcs,  keepers,  and  serving-men, 
looked  awe-struck  at  what  they  considered 
to  be  the  prisoner's  horrible  impudency,  in 
so  behaving  before  so  great  a  man  as  liis 
worship  ;  and  the  poor  justice  seemed  scarce 
in  his  right  senses,  he  spoke  so  fast,  and  in 
80  tearing  a  passion — at  last,  swearing  it 
was  a  pity  he  could  not  hang  so  abominable 
a  villain,  he  got  from  the  little  lawyer  the 
fullest  punishment,  provided  by  the  statute 
of  Elizabeth  for  such  offences,  which  was 


the  infliction  of  a  fine,  treble  the  value  of 
the  venison,  an  imprisonment  for  three 
months  in  the  county  gaol,  and  security  for 
good  behavior,  for  seven  years  ;  to  the  which 
he  presently  sentenced  the  offender.  The 
youthful  Shakspeare  cared  only  for  the  im- 
prisoning part  of  his  sentence,  as  he  felt  it 
hard  to  be  separated  from  his  wife,  and  he 
scarce  married  to  her ;  but  he  could  not 
allow  himself  to  say  anjlhing  in  mitigation 
of  punishment,  although  his  father  and 
father-in-law  did  so  for  him  ;  and  the  latter 
offered  to  pay  the  tine,  and  the  two  aldermen, 
his  father's  old  friends,  came  forward  as  hia 
security  :  nevertheless,  his  worship,  so  far 
from  according  with  what  was  required, 
abused  the  parties  heartily  for  saying  ought 
of  the  matter,  and  bade  tliem  out  of  his  door 
straight,  or  they  should  all  to  prison  to- 
gether. 

There  were  fewpresons  who  heard  of  the 
sentence,  but  were  famously  indignant  a 
mere  youthful  frolick  should  meet  with  such 
heavy  punishment,  and  many  of  the  prison- 
er's companions  swore  he  should  never  to 
prison  if  they  could  prevent  it.  Never  had 
there  been  such  a  ferment  in  Stratford  be- 
fore. All  abused  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  for  his 
unwarrantable  behavior,  and  unreasonable 
severity,  and  both  men  and  women  took  it  as 
monstrous  so  young  a  couple  should  be  thrust 
asunder  for  so  trifling  a  cause.  For  all  this, 
the  youthful  Shakspeare,  gyved  like  a  felon, 
and  guarded  by  two  constables,  was  sent  oflT 
to  Warwick  jail.  No  one  seemed  in  any 
way  surprised  when  intelligence  was  bruil- 
ed  abroad  that  they  had  scarce  got  a  rnile 
from  Charlcote,  when  the  constables  were 
set  upon  and  soundly  cudgelled,  and  the 
prisoner  carried  off  in  triumph,  by  sundry 
unknown  persons  with  blackened  faces. 
Certes,  such  was  the  case.  The  young 
husband  had  been  rescued  by  divers  of  his 
companions,  relieved  of  his  fetters,  and 
brought  back  to  his  distressed  wife. 

It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  a  young  man 
of  any  spirit  would  sit  down  and  tamely 
suffer  the  insults  that  had  been  heaped  upon 
him  by  this  shallow-pated  justice.  William 
Shakspeare  had  committed  the  offence  it  is 
true.  He  never  denied  it,  and  was  ready  to 
endure  any  fitting  punishment;  but  the 
abuse  and  the  gyves  were  the  gratuitous 
insolence  of  power,  desirous  of  insuhing  the 
weak ;  and,  smarting  under  a  sense  of 
wrong,  the  young  poet  penned  a  bitter  ballad 
against  the  old  knight,  and  a  mad-cap  com- 
panion fixed  it  on  the  justice's  park  gates. 
Sir  Thomas  was  one  of  the  first  tliat  spied 
it ;  and  the  excessive  rage  it  put  him  into, 
was  as  ludicrous  a  tiling  as  can  be  con- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


163 


ceived.  He  grew  pale  and  red  in  a  breath 
. — stormed  till  he  was  hoarse,  and  called 
about  him  his  little  army  of  constables, 
game-keepers,  and  serving-men,  questioned 
them  as  to  who  had  dared  to  commit  so  un- 
paralleled an  indignity,  and  abused  the  hor- 
ror-struck varlets  all  round  because  none 
could  give  him  the  slightest  information  on 
the  subject.  This  ballad  which  among  other 
offensive  things,  bore  a  burthen  to  it  with  a 
play  upon  his  name,  by  no  means  the  deli- 
catest  piece  of  jesting  in  the  world,  coming 
so  quickly  after  tlie  drubbing  of  his  officers, 
to  one  of  so  tender  a  skin  in  such  matters, 
seemed  like  enough  to  throw  him  into  a 
fever. 

His  dignity,  however,  was  fated  to  get 
■still  harder  rubs.     He  issued  warrant  after 
warrant  for  the  apprehension  of  the  escaped 
deer-stealer,  in  a  perfect  phrenzy  of  passion 
to  hear  he  was  still  at  large  ;  and  sent  con- 
stables with  them  in  all  directions,  with  strict 
orders  to  carry  him  to  prison  dead  or  alive ; 
but  flung  himself  into  such  desperate  rages 
when   he  heard   the  fruitlessness  of  their 
travail,  that  the  poor  constables  cared  not  to 
go  near  him.     Oliver  Dumps  had  received 
a  significant   hint  from  the  merry  widow, 
that  if  ever  he  laid  a  hand  on  Will  Shaks- 
peare  she  would  have  none  of  him  for  a  sixth 
husband,  therefore,  it  cannot  be  in  any  way 
strange  he   never   could  find   (he  escaped 
prisoner  searciied  he  ever  so.     As  for  the 
other  constables,  one  had  incautiously  made 
know  his  errand,  and  boasted  at  the  black- 
smith's that  he  would  find  Will  Shakspeare 
before  the  day  was  over  ;  and  about  an  hour 
i        afterwards  the  unhappy  officer  found  himself 
I       dragged  through  the   horse-pond,  with  an 
intimation  when  allowed  to  get  away  half 
drowned,  that  if  caught  again  under  similar 
I       circumstances,  he  would  not  escape  without 
!       hanging.     This,  together  with  the  intempe- 
j       rate  behavior  of  the  justice,  operated  with 
wonderful  effect  upon  the  whole  body,  and 
they  unanimously  adopted  the  opinion  the 
I       offender  had  left  the  country. 
'  Some  time  after   these  occurrences   his 

worship    gained    intelligence    that    young 
^       Shakspeare  had  been  all  the  while  residing 
I       at  the  cottage  of  his  father-in-law,  and  more- 
I       over  that  he  was  the  very  infamous  base 
1       caitiff  who  had  penned  the  bitter  ballad  that 
had  been  stuck  upon  his  gates.     This  was 
adding  fuel  to  the  flame.     The  justice  was 
I       in  such  a  monstrous  fire  of  indignation  that 
he  hardly  knew  what  to  set  about     The  un- 
lucky constables  were  ordered  to  attend  him 
instantly,  and  upon  these  he  poured  out  the 
!       violent  rage  that  was  brimming  over  in  him. 
They  declared  their  conviction  the  escaped 


prisoner  liad  gone  from  those  parts  altogether 
— nay,  one  confidently  asserted  a  brother  of 
his  had  seen  him  in  London  selling  oysters, 
and  another  was  as  ready  to  swear  he  had 
been  met  with  by  a  cousin  of  his  on  a  pie- 
bald horse,  within  a  mile  or  so  of  Oxford. 
His  worship  was  puzzled,  and  the  more  puz- 
zled his  worship  appeared,  the  more  confi- 
dent did  the  constables  become  in  their  as- 
sertions. At  last  he  ordered  them  to  accom- 
pany him,  and  then  started  off  in  the  midst 
of  them,  on  the  road  to  the  yeoman's  cottage. 

William  Shakspeare  was  busily  engaged 
with  a  party  of  farm  laborers  in  putting  up 
a  hay-rick  in  his  father-in-law's  paddock, 
when  one  of  the  children  came  running  in 
all  haste  to  say  his  worship  was  approaching 
the  house  with  a  great  company  of  men — in 
an  instant  he  was  covered  up  in  the  hay  as 
snugly  as  possible,  and  his  companions,  care- 
lessly singing,  continued  their  work  lifting 
up  the  new  hay  to  the  top  of  the  rick  and 
there  spreading  it  smooth  and  even.  Pres- 
ently the  expected  party  made  their  appear- 
ance. Sir  Thomas,  in  a  terrible  anxiety  to 
find  the  culprit,  and  the  constables  quite  as 
anxious  he  should  be  found. 

"  Dost  know  anything  of  one  William 
Shakspeare,  fellow  ?"  inquired  the  knight 
authoritatively  of  a  freckled-face  knave  lame 
of  a  leg.  The  latter  gazed  with  open  mouth 
for  a  few  moments  at  his  interrogator,  and 
then  turning  round  to  his  next  neighbor, 
very  gravely  repeated  the  question — his  fel- 
low looked  up  very  hard,  and  then  looked 
down  very  hard,  and  then  addressed  another 
of  his  companions  with  the  same  question — 
and  thus  it  went  round  the  whole  six  of  them 
with  exactly  the  same  result.  His  worship 
was  horribly  inclined  to  break  out  into  a 
deadly  passion. 

"  Wounds,  I  ha'  got  un  !"  exclaimed  he  of 
the  freckled  face,  slapping  his  knee  very 
sharply  with  his  palm.  "  His  worship  no 
doubt,  wants  the  blind  piper  that  lives  down 
yonder  below  the  mill." 

"  I'll  warrant,  so  he  do,"  added  another, 
with  a  like  gravity. 

"  I  tell  thee  no  !  I  tell  thee  no  !"  bawled 
out  the  justice,  as  the  haymakers  were 
shouting  their  information  into  his  ears,  as 
if  each  was  striving  to  be  heard  above  the 
other  ;  "  I  want  no  such  person.  I  seek 
one  William  Shakspeare,  a  convicted  dear- 
stealer,  who  married  John  Hathaway's 
daughter." 

At  this  the  lame  one  cast  an  exceeding 
long  face,  rubbed  his  knuckles  against  his 
eyes,  and  turned  away  very  pitifully ;  and 
the  others  did  just  the  same. 

"  What  hath  become  of  him,  I  say  ?"  cried 


1^ 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


the  knight,  more  imperatively,  not  exactly 
knowing  what  to  make  of  tliese  demonstra- 
tions. 

"An'  it  please  your  worship,"  cried  freck- 
led face,  blubbering  as  if  his  heart  was  a 
breaking,  '•  no  man  can  help  it.  I  would  he 
had  lived  longer,  perchance  he  might  have 
been  all  the  older  for  it." 

"  Is  he  dead  indeed,  now  fellow  ?"  in- 
quired the  old  knight,  looking  somewhat 
confounded  at  this  unexpected  news. 

"An'  it  please  you,  I  heard  he  made  so 
fine  an  end,  it  was  better  than  a  sermon  at 
fast  days,"  observed  another,  as  woeful  as 
his  companion. 

"  Who's  that  laughing  ?"  exclaimed  Sir 
Thomas,  very  sharply ;  "  there's  some  one 
behind  the  rick.  Bring  him  here  !  Body 
o'  me,  ni  teach  the  unmannerly  knave  bet- 
ter behavior."  The  constables  hurried  be- 
hind tlie  rick,  but  not  the  slightest  sign  of 
any  one  was  there.  This  put  his  worship 
into  a  rage.  He  had  certainly  heard  some- 
body, and  felt  a  monstrous  inclination  to 
punish  a  person  guilty  of  treating  him  with 
so  little  respect.  One  of  the  men  thought 
it  was  an  owl,  anotlier  took  it  to  be  a  bat, 
and  a  third  assured  his  worship  it  was  only 
the  old  sow,  who,  on  an  occasion,  could 
grunt  in  a  way  marvellous  like  one  laugh- 
ing. The  justice  did  not  appear  to  be  per- 
fectly satisfied  with  these  explanations ;  but, 
after  questioning  the  men  some  short  time 
longer,  and  getting  from  them  no  greater 
intelhgence,  he  found  himself  forced  to  turn 
away  no  wiser  than  ho  came.  Threatening 
them  all  with  the  terriblest  punishments,  if 
he  discovered  they  had  told  him  falsely,  the 
old  knight  retraced  his  steps,  resolving  to 
see  his  intelligencer  again,  and  examine  him 
strictly  on  the  correctness  of  his  information, 
of  the  which  he  now  entertained  some  doubts. 

"  Take  heed  of  the  dog,  an"  it  please  your 
worship,"  cried  one  of  the  hay-makers, 
doubtless  with  most  benevolent  intentions  ; 
but  unfortunately,  he  gave.jj.he  caution  a  mo- 
ment too  late,  for  as  the  justice  v/as  picking 
his  way  carefully  along,  a  dog  rushed  out 
of  a  kennel  close  upon  him,  and  gave  him 
so  smart  a  bite  in  the  leg,  that  he  roared 
again.  The  youtiiful  Shakspeare  peeped 
from  his  hiding  place  at  hearing  this  noise, 
and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  old 
knight  hopjjing  along  the  yard  at  the  top  of 
his  speed,  furiously  pursued  by  a  tkjck  of 
noisy  geese  and  turkeys,  who  seemed  quite 
as  much  inclined  for  a  bite  of  his  legs  as  the 
dog  had  been.  His  little  army  did  not  make 
their  retreat  in  a  much  more  orderly  manner, 
for  the  house-ilog  flow  at  them  as  tiiey  pass- 
ed his  kennel,  and  the  turkeys  and  geese 


pursued  them  when  they  crossed  the  yard. 
His  worship  was  more  hurt  by  the  shouts  of 
laughter  which  followed  his  undignified  exit, 
than  he  had  been  by  the  bite  he  had  received, 
but  oh,  more  unpalatable  than  all ! — as  he 
was  returning  home  in  a  most  horrible  hu- 
mor, what  should  he  hear,  but  a  parcel  of 
little  children  singing  the  offensive  ballad 
writ  upon  him,  as  loud  as  they  could  bawl 
it.  His  wrath  was  too  great  "for  utterance. 
He  felt  he  could  have  hanged  every  little 
rogue  of  them  all ;  but  resolved  to  go  to 
town,  and  complain  to  the  privy  council  how 
infamously  he  had  been  used. 

After  well  abusing  the  constables,  and  ev- 
ery one  else  that  came  within  his  reach,  he 
sought  the  unhappy  Mabel,  and  poured  out 
the  remainder  of  his  rage  upon  her  ;  swear- 
ing she  should  marrj'  his  friend's  servant 
and  no  other,  and  bidding  her  prepare  her- 
self for  doing  so  within  a  month  at  least,  as 
he  was  determined  it  should  then  take  place. 
The  poor  foundling  too  well  knew  the  char- 
acter of  her  companion  to  attempt  to  parley 
with  him  on  the  subject.  It  was  manifest 
her  villaiivDus  persecutors  woidd  not  let  her 
rest  whilst  there  remained  the  slightest 
chance  of  their  getting  her  into  their  power ; 
and  having  the  positive  and  unsuspicious 
knight,  and  his  most  obedient  lady  to  assist 
them,  they  fully  persuaded  themselves  their 
success  was  certain.  The  only  bar  seemed 
to  lie  in  the  disinclination  of  her  affianced 
husband  to  be  an  agent  in  the  business  ;  but 
at  last,  the  bribes  he  was  offered  appeared 
to  stifle  his  conscience,  and  he  promised  to 
carry  on  the  matter  to  its  conclusion. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Not  a  word  spake  he  more  than  was  nede. 
And  that  was  said  in  forme  and  reverence, 
And  short  and  qiiiUe,:uid  full  of  high  sentence. 
Soiming  in  moral  virtue  was  hisspeche, 
And  gladly  would  he  learn,  and  gladly  teche. 

Chaucer. 

Kath.  What  our  destinies 

Have  ruled  out  in  their  books  we  must  not  search. 

But  kneel  to. 

War.  Then  to  fear  when  \\o\\c  is  fruitless, 

Were  to  be  desperately  miserable  ; 

Which  poverty  our  greatness  does  not  dream  of. 

And,  luueh  more,  acorns  to  stoop  to  ;  some  few 

minutes 
Remain  yet,  let's  be  thrifty  in  our  hopes. 

Ford. 

Time  passed  on,  and  in  due  time  the  young 
husband  was  made  a  father,    Tliis  occur- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


165 


rence  gave  his  feelings  a  new  impulse.  A 
youth  of  nineteen,  possessed  of  such  deep 
sympathies,  and  so  ready  to  indulge  them  on 
all  natural  objects  as  was  the  youthful 
Shakspeare,  on  such  an  occasion  must  needs 
experience  a  most  choice  and  exquisite  grati- 
fication. He  felt  he  had  got  a  stronger 
claim  on  his  exertions  than  had  he  hitherto, 
and  labored  with  higher  aims  than  he  had 
before  known.  Jemmy  Catchpole,  much  as 
he  inclined  to  do  so^  knowing  of  his  worth, 
did  not  dare  employ  him  ;  and  when  he  was 
not  assisting  his  father-in-law  in  farming, 
his  chief  occupation  was  teaching  the  sons 
of  the  neighboring  farmers  and  yeomen  such 
matters  of  schooling  as  it  was  customary  for 
them  to  learn  ;  and  this  he  did  so  tenderly, 
and  in  so  scholarlike  a  manner,  that  by  the 
parents  he  soon  got  to  be  approved  of  before 
all  teachers.  During  this  time  he  failed 
not  to  continue  his  own  studies  in  such  fash- 
ion as  he  had  been  used  to  ;  and  it  was  ac- 
knowledged, of  every  person  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, that,  for  learning,  they  had  never  met 
I  with  his  peer. 
I  Yet,  all  this  while,  he  was  far  from  being 

happy.  The  ardor  of  his  passion  for  the 
yeoman's  blooming  daughter  had  blinded 
him  to  many  faults  he  could  not  avoid  per- 
j  ceiving  in  her  on  closer  acquaintance.  She 
had  been  spoiled  by  indulgence  all  her  life. 
Her  father  had  allowed  her  to  do  much  as 
slie  pleased,  which  had  put  into  her  the  notion 
that  what  she  did  must  always  be  right,  and 
she  would  not  have  it  gainsayed  of  any. 

The  youthful  Shakspeare  discovered  too 
late,  his  wife's  deficiencies  in  the  necessary 
quaUties  of  mind.     Indeed  she  was  perfect- 
ly uneducated,  and  her  ignorance  made  her 
unconscious  of  the  miscliief  she  was  doing 
by  her  ungracious  conduct.     She  was  not 
naturally  of  an  unamiable  disposition  ;  in- 
deed, at  times  she  was  too  prodigal  in  the 
display  of  her  kinder  feelings,  but  vanity 
I       had  filled  her  with  most  preposterous  preju- 
j       dices  ;  and  if  her  husband  opposed  her,  how- 
!       ever  slightly,  in  any  matter,  however  reason- 
'       able  on  his  part,  she  would  regard  it  as 
using  her  exceeding  ill,  and  get  out  of  tem- 
per speedily,  and  say  uncivil   words,  and 
I       show  all  manner  of  discourteous  behavior. 
I       This  made  her  youthful  helpmate  see  into 
her  character  more,  and  more,  and  the  more 
he  saw  the  less  he  liked,  and  the  less  he 
liked  the  less  he  respected.     The  charm  of 
her  beauty  gradually  vanished  away ;  and 
as  she  had  nothing  in  her  conversation  to 
attract  him,  she  had  no  sort  of  hold  over  him 
beyond  that  of  being  the  mother  of  his  child. 
Still  he  treated  her  as  affectionately  as  ever 
he  had  done,  considerinsf  himself  the  most 


to  blame  for  his  too  great  precipitancy,  al- 
lowing her  no  just  cause  of  complaint — and 
striving  whatever  he  could  to  bring  her,  by 
fair  persuasions,  to  a  more  admirable  way 
of  behaving. 

Every  day  he  beheld  stronger  proofs  of  a 
vain  disposition  acting  upon  a  weak  mind. 
Fits  of  sullenness  followed  close  upon  the 
heels  of  outbreaks  of  temper — she  neglected 
the  proper  duties  of  a  wife  and  a  motber,  to 
enjoy  any  pastime  that  was  within  her  reach 
— and  by  the  lack  of  ordinary  comfort  to  be 
had  at  home,  she  frequently  drove  her  hus- 
band to  seek  his  pleasure  where  he  could. 
It  was  a  grief  tliat  touched  him  where  he 
could  have  little  or  no  defence  ;  for  when  he 
attempted  to  remonstrate,  in  order  that  he 
might  fail  in  nothing  to  induce  her  to  act 
more  commendably,  it  was  sure  to  end  in 
such  a  scene  of  obstinacy,  wounded  self- 
love,  and  unamiable  behaving,  as  plainly 
showed  him  there  was  marvellous  slight 
hopes  she  would  mend. 

Again  he  became  a  father.  On  the  first  oc- 
casion his  child  was  a  girl,  that  he  had  had 
christened  by  the  name  of  Susanna,  and  now 
his  wife  brought  him  twins,  a  boy  and  a  girl, 
that  were  severally  named  Hamnet  and  Ju- 
dith. For  a  time  this  made  him  regardless 
of  the  mother's  deficiencies,  and  increased 
his  kindnesses  to  her :  besides  which  he  en- 
tertained many  anxious  thoughts  of  the  future. 
His  own  means  were  in  no  way  adequate  to 
liis  wants,  and  although  John  Hathaway 
took  heed  of  these,  so  that  he  should  feel 
them  but  hghtly,  he  would  rather,  by  many 
degrees,  have  satisfied  them  of  his  own  labor. 
His  old  companions,  Greene,  Burbage,  Con- 
dell,  and  Hemings,  had  one  by  one  gone  to 
join  the  players  ;  and  such  reports  of  their 
well-doing  had  reached  him,  as  made  him 
marvellous  desirous  of  following  their  ex- 
ample. 

Unfortunately,  his  wife  merely  regarded 
this  late  increase  in  her  family  as  a  vast  ac- 
cession to  her  claims  to  have  her  will  in 
everything  that  was  most  preposterous  ;  and 
more  than  ever  was  inclined  to  behave  her- 
self as  she  pleased,  and  resent  in  every  pos- 
sible way,  any  attempt  to  thwart  her  incli- 
nations. Consequently  she  daily  made 
greater  demands  on  her  husl)and's  patience, 
which  sometimes  forced  from  him  well- 
meant  arguments,  the  which  she  took  very 
bitterly :  and  he  finding  her  to  grow  so  mucla 
the  worse,  so  much  the  more  he  strove  by 
kindness  to  make  her  better,  at  last  made 
her  to  know  he  would  leave  her,  did  she  not 
seek  to  lead  him  a  pleasanter  life.  But  this 
was  far  from  making  her  alter  her  ungra- 
ciousness towards  him,  for  she  appeared  to 


166 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


take  it  as  if  she  would  as  soon  he  went  as 
staid.  Still  the  young  husband  was  reluc- 
tant to  give  her  up.  He  would  have  been 
glad  to  have  had  any  friend's  advice,  for  he 
saw  nought  before  him  but  an  increasing 
wretchedness,  remained  he  where  he  was  ; 
and  to  quit  her  and  the  children,  although 
he  was  well  aware  lier  fatlier  would  properly 
provide  for  them,  he  could  not  reconcile  his 
conscience  to  ;  but  lie  had  no  friend  at  this 
time  fit  to  advise  with  him  in  such  a  strait. 
His  friends  at  Sir  Marmaduke's  he  liad  not 
seen  sometime,  for  as  lie  grew  to  manhood 
he  felt  he  could  not  associate  with  persons 
so  far  above  him  as  he  had  done  whilst  a 
boy,  and  went  there  less  and  less,  till  he  re- 
frained from  such  visits  altogether  ;  and  he 
liked  not  going  to  John  a  Combe,  remember- 
ing how  urgently  he  had  warned  him 
against  pursuing  the  very  course  of  which 
he  was  now  feeling  the  evil  consequences. 

After  many  long  and  comfortless  reflec- 
tions, he  resolved  on  making  a  last  effort. 
One  fine  May  morning,  a  few  months  after 
the  christening  of  the  twins,  he  presented 
himself  before  her.  Tliey  were  alone.  She 
was  tiring  of  herself  in  all  her  choicest  bra- 
veries, to  attend  some  festival  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. A  sort  of  sprightly  indifference 
was  in  her  manner  as  she  saw  her  luisband 
approach  ;  as  he  noticed  this,  and  heard  one 
of  the  children  crying  unheeded,  in  the  next 
chamber,  he  had  no  great  hope  of  success 
in  his  present  undertaking — nevertheless  he 
felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  proceed  in  it.  He 
walked  up  and  down  the  chamber  with  an 
aching  heart,  she  humming  of  a  tune  the 
while,  and  decking  herself  in  her  finery  as 
if  in  a  perfect  carelessness  of  everything 
save  her  own  pleasure. 

"  Anno,  I  pray  you  look  to  the  child,  it 
cryeth  most  pitifully!"  e.xclaimcd  he  at  last. 

"  Joan  is  there,"  replied  she,  carelessly. 

"  It  seemeth  that  it  requireth  its  mother, 
and  will  not  be  satisfied  with  Joan,"  ob- 
served her  husband. 

"  Then  it  must  be  satisfied  with  her,  for  I 
cannot  be  ever  witli  the  children,"  answered 
his  wife,  with  some  pctt/shness. 

"  Methinks  the  gratifying  the  natural 
desires  of  a  young  babe  sliould  bo  helft  be- 
fore ail  other  things  wi'h  its  mother,"  said 
William  Shakspeare.  ''  She  hath  a  sacred 
obligation  imposed  on  her  which  she  ought 
in  no  way  to  neglect  for  the  furthering  of 
her  own  immediate  convenience." 

"  Tut !  what  should  men  know  of  such 
matters  !"  cried  his  companion.  "  Truly,  a 
fine  life  of  it  a  poor  woman  would  lead  who 
followed  such  old  saws.     I  will  do  no  such 


folly,  depend  on't.  I  marv'el  yon  should  in- 
terfere in  things  so  out  of  your  province  ; 
but  'tis  done  merely  to  prevent  my  taking 
my  proper  pleasure — nevertheless  it  seemeth 
to  me  good  I  enjoy  it." 

"  I  cannot  have  the  sHgbtest  wish  to  debar 
you  of  your  proper  pleasures,"  replied  her 
husband  ;  "  in  very  truth  I  would  strive  my 
utmost  you  should  enjoy  as  much  happiness 
as  woman  can." 

"  You  don't!"  exclaimed  the  other,  sharp- 
ly ;  "  you  are  in  a  constant  mood  of  finding 
fault  with  n>e — you  will  never  do  as  I  wish  : 
and  when  I  am  for  the  pleasuring  myself 
with  my  neighbors,  you  fail  not  to  raise  all 
manner  of  foolisli  improper  objections." 

"  I  cannot  call  any  such  proper  pleasures, 
when  your  neighbors  are  looked  to  and  your 
children  neglected,"  observed  he. 

"  Marry,  I  care  not  what  you  call  them," 
she  answered  ;  "^  I  will  do  as  I  list,  take  it 
as  yon  may." 

"Anne,  I  implore  you  to  pause  in  this 
most  unsemely  behaving,"  said  her  com- 
panion, very  urgently  ;  "  it  doth  cause  me 
infinite  unhappiness  to  see  you  so  forget 
yourself.  The  ordinary  duties  of  a  fond 
good  wife  and  mother  are  thrust  aside  and 
lost  sight  of,  through  utter  carelessness. 
None  could  furnish  my  house  so  pleasantly 
as  yourself,  if  it  chose  you  to  do  so  ;  but  you 
seek  to  make  it  as  wretched  as  you  can  by 
all  manner  of  unbecomingness,  unkindness, 
and  neglect.  I  pray  you  change  such  a 
course  for  one  more  desirable  to  me  and 
more  creditable  to  yourself ;  and  you  shall 
find  I  do  not  lack  gratitude." 

"Gratitude!"  echoed  the  spoiled  woman, 
with  considerable  bitterness.  "  O'  my  word 
I  have  had  enough  of  your  gratitude.  I 
have  left  divers  rich  suitors  to  take  up  with 
you,  who  had  not  so  much  as  would  buy  me 
a  day's  meal.  I  liave  brought  you  every 
comfort  you  have  in  the  way  of  lodging, 
clothing,  and  victual ;  and  moreover  three 
as  fine  children  as  an  honest  father  could 
desire  ;  and  yet  I  am  treated  as  though  I 
had  done  nothing  of  all  this.  'Tis  a  fine 
thing,  truly,  to  treat  one  so  ill  who  hath  been 
so  bountiful  to  you  ;  but  I  will  put  up  with 
no  such  treatment,  I  promise  you.  I  will 
act  as  it  seemeth  best  to  my  humor ;  and  in 
no  case  will  I  be  driven  from  my  innocent 
pastime  at  the  will  of  an  ungrateful  wortli- 
less  husband." 

"  I  have  already  told  you  I  strive  not  to 
check  you  in  anything  innocent  at  a  proper 
time,"  replied  Iier  husband  ;  "  but  I  cannot 
see  you  ruin  your  own  happiness  and  mine 
by  a  wilful  obstinacy  in  doing  wrong." 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


167 


"  You're  a  base  inhuman  wretch !"  ex- 
claimed the  yeoman's  daughter. 

"I  have  sought  all  occasions  and  all  ar- 
guments to  persuade  you  to  act  more  be- 
comingly," continued  he,  '•  and  only  brought 
on  myself  bitter  taunts  and  ungenerous  re- 
flections." 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  your  f.ice,  you 
ungrateful  vile  caitiff!"  added  his  com- 
panion. 

"  There  now  remaineth  but  one  thing  for 
me  to  do,"  said  William  Shakspeare,  betray- 
ing by  his  voice  the  struggle  in  his  nature  ; 
"  as  'tis  impossible  we  can  live  happily  to- 
gether, we  must  part !" 

"  Oh,  you  may  go !"  replied  she,  with  a 
careless  toss  of  her  head  ;  "  and  I  care  not 
how  soon — and  I  shall  not  fret  for  your  com- 
ing back,  I  promise  you." 

"  I  beseech  you,  as  my  last  request,  show 
such  love  to  the  dear  children  as  their  ten- 
der years  entitle  them  to,"  said  the  youthful 
father,  so  moved  he  could  scarce  speak. 

"  I  pray  you  despatch  yourself,  since  you 
are  for  going,"  answered  the  thoughtless 
wife  more  bitterly  than  before  ;  "  and  forget 
not  o  take  with  you  all  that  you  brought !" 
Her  husband  cast  one  look  of  reproach  on 
the  once  object  of  his  so  great  love — turned 
away  almost  clicking  with  his  overpower- 
ing sensations,  and  in  the  next  moment  had 
left  the  cottage, — the  scene  of  a  thousand 
exquisite  pleasures — never  to  enter  it  again. 
He  first  bent  his  steps  toward  Henley  Street, 
to  take  leave  of  his  parents,  and  then  left  the 
town  without  speech  of  any  other,  for  with 
his  present  feelings  he  cared  not  to  be  idly 
talked  to  and  questioned.  When  he  had 
gone  some  little  distance  he  stopped  to  take 
a  last  look  of  his  native  pluce.  There  lay 
the  .steeple  of  the  old  church,  towering  above 
the  surrounding  houses  and  trees — the  fair 
land-mark  he  had  hailed  returning  from  so 
many  pleasant  rambles  ;  there  lay  his  fa- 
ther's dwelling,  hallowed  in  his  recollection 
by  a  whole  history  of  early  studies,  struggles, 
and  pleasures  ;  there  lay  the  winding  Avon, 
in  whose  sweet  waters  he  had  so  often  laved 
his  limbs,  or  gathered  from  its  banks  con- 
tinual store  of  blooming  treasure  ;  and  there 
lay  a  hundred  other  spots  equally  well  de- 
serving of  his  remembrance,  as  the  scene  of 
some  childish  sport  or  youthful  adventure. 

He  gazed  in  another  direction,  and  if  the 
yeoman's  pretty  cottage  was  not  made  out 
in  the  landscape,  he  had  it  in  his  eyes  as 
clearly  as  when  he  first  beheld  it,  attracted 
thereto  by  the  cheerful  singing  of  the  bloom- 
ing girl  at  her  spinning-wheel.  Then  fol- 
lowed scene  after  scene  of  exquisite  enjoy- 
ment.    The  evening  meetings,  where  she 


■  waited  for  him  at  the  next  style — their  deli- 
cious salutations  there — their  gentle  stroll 
together  back  to  the  old  walnut  tree,  and  all 
the  goodly  entertainment  he  had  under  its 
friendly  shadows,  till,  after  some  dozen  re- 
luctant farewells,  he  forced  himself  away. 
And  last  of  all  came  sullen  looks  and  pro- 
voking words,  and  a  crowd  of  attendant 
miseries,  created  by  the  unfeeling  thought- 
less carelessness  of  that  weak  vain  woman. 
And  now  he  saw  himself  a  wanderer  to  go 
wheresoever  he  would,  driven  from  his  home 
by  the  very  means  that  had  brought  such 
home  to  him,  and  deprived  of  happiness  by 
having  had  the  possession  of  what  he  had 
so  long  believed  could  alone  secure  it  him 
forever.  These  remembrances  took  such 
painful  hold  of  his  heart,  that  the  anguish 
he  endured  at  that  moment  was  beyond 
everything  he  had  hitherto  suffered. 

"  Thou  shalt  see  better  days  anon,  dear 
heart !"  exclaimed  a  familiar  voice,  and 
turning  round,  he  beheld  Nurse  Cicely. 
"  Pleasure  cometh  after  suffering  as  natu- 
rally as  the  green  buds  after  the  early  rains. 
All  things  have  their  season.  Thy  time  is 
now  for  sorrow  ;  but  bear  up  nobly,  and  be 
assured  greatness  shall  come  of  it  beyond 
thy  brightest  hopes.  A  fair  journey  to  thee 
my  sweeting  !" — So  saying,  the  old  woman 
hobbled  away,  leaving  the  youthful  Shaks- 
peare in  an  especial  marvel  at  her  strange 
words.  She  had  often  addressed  him  in  a 
like  manner  previously,  but  he  had  paid  little 
attention  to  what  she  had  said, — now,  how- 
ever, he  pondered  on  it  as  he  went  along, 
and  not  without  some  particular  satisfaction. 
He  had  not  proceeded  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
when  he  met  John  a  Combe.  He  would 
have  avoided  him  if  he  could,  for  he  liked 
not  his  company  at  that  moment ;  but  the 
usurer  came  suddenly  upon  him  from  a  lane 
which  led  into  the  road,  along  which  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare  was  passing. 

"  So  !"  cried  John  a  Combe,  in  his  usual 
bitter  manner,  •'  thou  wouldst  not  be  led  by 
my  advice,  and  art  now  smarting  for't. 
Serves  thee  right.  But  every  fool  doth  the 
same.  Tell  them  where  lies  the  mischief, 
they  run  into  it  on  the  instant, — suffer  first 
and  repent  after.  Prithee,  what  dost  intend 
doing  ?" 

"  I  am  for  making  the  best  of  my  way  to 
London,  where  I  expect  meeting  with  cer- 
tain friends  of  mine,"  replied  his  young  com- 
panion. 

"  Ay,  bov,  thou'lt  meet  fools  enough  there, 
I'll  warrant,"  answered  the  usurer,  sharply. 
"  But  'tis  a  long  journey,  and  requireth  some 
expense  on  the  way.  How  art  off  for 
means  ?" 


168 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  In  truth  not  over  well — but  I  must  e'en 
do  as  I  best  may,"  said  the  otlier. 

"  Give  ine  thy  purse  !"  exclaimed  John  a 
Combe,  and  without  more  ado,  he  snatched 
it  from  his  girdle,  and  then  turned  his  back 
to  him  to  see  what  was  in  it.  "As  I  live, 
no  more  than  a  groat  and  a  shilling  !"  con- 
tinued he,  in  seeming  monstrous  astonish- 
ment. "  Why,  ere  thou  has  got  a  good 
dozen  mile  thou  will  be  forced  to  eat  thyself 
for  lack  of  victual.  Here,  let  me  put  thy 
purse  in  thy  girdle  again."  And  then  the 
usurer  carefully  replaced  it.  "  Thou  and 
thy  wits  liave  parted  company,  that's  a  sure 
thing." 

"  1  would  ask  one  favor  of  you,  good  Mas- 
ter Combe,  before  I  leave  you." 

"  Nay,  I  will  lend  thee  no  money  !"  quick- 
ly replied  his  companion.  "  It  be  not  a 
likely  thing  a  usurer  should  trust  one  who 
starteth  on  a  long  journey,  with  only  a  knob- 
bed stick  by  way  of  weapon,  vvith  a  bundle 
of  linen  at  the  end  on't  carried  over  his 
shoulder  by  way  of  luggage,  and  a  shrove- 
groat  shillinj,  and  a  cracked  groat  in  his 
purse,  for  store  of  money  for  spending." 

"  I  do  not  require  of  you  such  a  thing," 
replied  William  Shakspeare.  "  All  I  would 
of  you  is  that  if  my  dear  parents  need  what 
you  have  to  spare,  you  will  do  your  good 
offices  to  them,  and  as  soou  as  fortune  fa- 
voreth  me  somewhat,  I  will  return  whatever 
you  are  so  generous  as  to  furnish." 

"  Truly  a  tine  story  !"  remarked  John  a 
Combe.  '•  Though  art  sure  to  come  to  great 
wealth  with  so  prodigious  a  beginning  !  It 
would  be  monstrous  like  a  usurer,  methinks, 
to  lend  on  such  ])oor  security." 

'•'  An'  you  will  not  t  cannot  help  it,"  said 
the  other  dejectedly. 

"  Nay,  I  said  not  I  refused  !"  exclaimed 
the  usurer.  "  So  there  is  no  great  occasion 
thou  shouldst  look  so  woe-begonc.  Indeed, 
I  care  not  to  acquaint  thee,  for  thy  comfort, 
seeing  though  art  not  likely  to  come  back 
and  tell  my  neighbors  of  my  infinite  foolish- 
ness, I  have  been  thy  honest  father's  friend 
this  many  a  year,  and  he  not  know  it."  His 
young  companitjn  seized  his  hand  gratefully, 
and  looked  more  thanks  than  he  could  have 
spoken  had  he  twenty  tongues.  lie  knew 
that  some  secret  person  had  for  a  consider- 
able period  of  years  been  sending  sums  of 
money  when  his  parents  were  in  their  great- 
est need,  and  now  it  came  out  it  was  Mas- 
ter Combe  and  no  other. 

"  I  cannot  get  out  of  my  old  folly,  try  how 
[  will,"  contiiuied  he,  more  moved  by  the 
other's  simple  manifestation  of  his  feelings 
than  he  chose  to  show.  "  Of  the  baseness 
of  the  world,  methinks  I  have   had  proof 


enough.  O'  my  life  !  there  cannot  'oe  found 
more  convincing  evidence  than  an  honest 
worthy  man  suffering  poverty  in  mean 
clothing  and  poor  victual,  while  ba.seness  in 
a  fine  doublet,  taketh  sauce  with  his  capon, 
and  hath  money  to  spare." 

"  Doubtless  the  world  containeth  some  un- 
worthy persons,"  observed  William  Shaks- 
peare. "  It  is  scarce  reasonable  to  expect 
it  can  be  otherwise,  when  sucli  countless 
multitudes  are  to  be  met  with  in  each  part 
of  the  globe.  We  shall  tind  weeds  in  every 
field  ;  hut  surely  the  field  deserveth  to  be 
called  a  good  field  for  all  that.  But  why 
should  we  dwell  on  such  things  ?  There 
are  flowers,  peeping  out  from  our  verj'  foot- 
steps go  where  we  will,  and  yet  we  will  not 
see  them,  but  care  only  to  spy  what  is  un- 
sightly and  unprofitable.  In  honest  truth, 
worthy  sir,  methinks  wo  do  Nature  a  huge 
wrong  by  such  behavior  of  ours.  'Tis  man- 
ifest injustice  to  be  so  bhnd  to  merit,  and  to 
see  only  that  which  is  not  likely  to  call  for 
our  admiration." 

"  Nay,  boy,  'tis  the  world  that  is  blind  to 
merit,  not  I,"  answered  the  usurer.  "  I  be- 
hold thy  himest  parents  struggling  all  they 
can  to  live  with  a  fair  credit  though  terribly 
pinched  i'  the  ribs,  and  the  world  shutteth 
its  Argus  eyes  and  passeth  by.  I  behold 
their  worthy  son  showing  signs  of  an  hon- 
orable disposition,  and  talents  deserving  of  as 
higli  estimation,  yet  the  world  doth  appre- 
ciate him  at  so  low  a  price,  it  will  allow  of 
his  starting  a  long  journey  to  London  on  a 
chance  errand  to  fortune,  with  no  greater 
provision  ihan  a  shilling  and  a  groat.  All 
this  while  the  world  givelh  to  \ihains  place 
and  ceremony,  and  maketh  a  shallow-witted 
coxcomb  with  broad  acres  pass  for  a  knight 
o'  the  shire,  and  justice  o'  the  peace." 

"  But  how  know  we  this  state  of  things 
will  always  continue  ?"  said  his  young  com- 
panion ;  "  it  may  be,  for  such  changes  have 
happened  before,  that  when  Master  Justice 
is  feeding  of  the  worms,  my  dear  parents 
shall  be  enjoying  of  as  mucii  comfort  as  their 
hearts  can  desire  ;  and  I,  wlunn  he  hath  so 
often  strove  to  play  his  poor  spite  upon,  may 
leave  to  my  children  a  better  name  out  of 
such  poor  talents  as  I  have,  than  could  he, 
out  of  all  his  broad  acres  and  fine  house, 
serving-men  and  constables,  his  worship  and 
knightship,  and  every  other  sign  of  great- 
ness whereof  he  is  used  to  make  such  fa- 
mous boasting,  into  the  barg-ain." 

"  See  I  this,  I  will  believe  it,"  said  John  a 
Combe  ;  "  yet,  with  the  knowledge  I  have  of 
the  world's  baseness,  I  exjiect  no  such  wel- 
come changes.  Justice  is  painted  blind, 
and  blind  she  is  beyond  question." 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


169 


"  I  have  other  thoughts  of  that,"  replied 
William  Shakspeare.  "  I  believe  that  it 
very  rarely  happens,  when  merit  showeth 
itself  in  any  conspicuousness,  it  is  not  kind- 
ly taken  by  the  hand  to  be  exalted  above  all 
meaner  natures." 

"  Ay,  boy,  on  the  pillory  or  the  gibbet," 
drily  added  the  usurer  ;  "  but  thou  art  past 
arguing.  Just  as  I  was  at  thy  age  art  thou. 
I  would  allow  none  to  convince  me  of  any 
such  thing  as  injustice  in  nature.  Marry,  I 
had  such  convincing  at  last,  as  left  me  with- 
out a  doubt  to  stand  upon.  I  would  have 
thee  grow  wiser  than  thou  art,  but  in  mercy 
I  would  not  wish  thee  any  such  resistless 
arguments  as  crushed  my  favorable  opinions 
out  of  me.  Get  thee  gone  Will  Shakspeare, 
and  speed  on  thy  errand  as  well  as  thou 
canst.  If  so  be  thou  art  not  doing  well, 
write  to  me  without  fail ;  but  at  any  rate  let 
nie  know  how  thou  art  proceeding." 

"  One  thing  more,  worthy  Master  Combe," 
said  his  young  companion  urgently  ;  "  since 

Fou  have  been  so  good  as  to  talk  of  writing, 
would  you  would  do  me  such  kind  service 
as  to  see  my  children  as  oft  as  may  be  con- 
venient to  you,  and  let  me  know  how  they 
get  on  in  all  things." 

"  And  their  mother  ?"  added  the  usurer, 
with  somewhat  of  sarcasm. 

"  If  you  know  any  thing  concerning  of 
her  worthy  to  bo  told,  acquaint  me  with  it 
by  all  means ;  but  if  of  another  nature,  I 
care  not  to  hear  of  it." 

"  Ha  !"  exclaimed  the  usurer,  sharply  ; 
"  let  it  be  even  so.  And  now  fare  thee  well. 
Will  Shakspeare.  I  wish  thee  every  man- 
ner of  good,  though  I  am  in  huge  doubt  any- 
thing of  the  sort  is  to  be  found." 

"  Truly,  I  cannot  help  seeing  it  in  your- 
self, worthy  Master  Combe,  despite  your  un- 
gracious seeming,"  replied  his  young  friend, 
parting  with  him  in  sincere  regret.  After 
going  a  few  paces,  he  turned  round  to  take 
another  glance  at  his  old  acquaintance,  and 
to  his  surprise,  beheld  him  standing  still, 
looking  after  him  with  an  aspect  of  deeper 
feeling  than  ever  he  had  observed  in  him  be- 
fore ;  but  immediately  he  was  noticed,  he 
took  on  himself  the  same  severe  expression 
of  countenance  he  was  wont  to  wear,  and 
then  turning  quicUy  away,  paced  onwards 
towards  the  town. 

As  William  Shakspeare  was  thinking 
over  the  strangeness  of  his  companion,  his 
eyes  suddenly  lighted  on  his  purse,  which 
seemed  to  be  much  increased  in  size  since  he 
last  had  sight  of  it,  he  took  it  into  his  hand, 
and  looking  to  its  contents,  to  his  prodigious 
marvelling,  discovered  as  goodly  a  store  of 
coin  as  he  could  need  the  whole  length  of  his 


journey.  Here  was  a  fresh  instance  of  the 
unhappy  usurer's  secret  manner  of  doing 
kindness  where  it  was  most  needed,  and  the 
discovery  of  it  had  such  effect  on  the  sensi- 
tive nature  of  him  he  had  so  providently 
thought  of,  that  it  refreshed  him  with  many 
sweet  feelings,  and  sent  him  on  his  long 
journey  with  a  more  cheerful  spirit  than  he 
had  known  a  long  time.  He  a|)peared  now 
to  have  at  his  will  the  means  of  procuring 
what  he  most  wished.  For  with  such  a 
sanguine  disposition  as  he  possessed,  he  be- 
lieved that  were  he  once  in  London,  he 
should  speedily  get  such  employment  as  he 
desired,  and  then  he  had  in  him  that  convic- 
tion he  would  raise  himself  greatly,  often 
attending  upon  the  youthful  and  imagina- 
tive. 

Filled  with  these  considerations,  and  with 
manifold  fine  plans  and  excellent  fair  pros- 
pects, he  trudged  manfully  along. 

The  day  was  well-favored  a  day  to  look 
on  as  ever  appeared  in  that  merry  month  ; 
the  hedges  being  all  over  covered  with  deli- 
cate May,  and  the  banks  as  prodigally  gift- 
ed with  the  dainty  gifts  of  the  season,  which 
made  the  air  so  exquisite,  nothing  could  ex- 
ceed it  in  delectable  sweetness ;  added  to 
which,  such  crowds  of  small  birds  were 
tuning  of  their  little  pipes  upon  every  tree 
and  bush,  as  made  most  ravishmg  music  all 
along  the  road.  I  doubt  much  the  delight- 
some aspect  of  Nature  was  as  pleasantly 
regarded  as  it  deserved  to  be  by  the  youthful 
wanderer ;  for  although  he  had  but  a  few 
minutes  since  determined  in  his  mind  he 
would  think  no  more  of  his  unhappiness,  the 
sight  of  the  odorous  flowery  hedges  brought 
to  his  memory  that  gay  morning  he  went  a- 
maying  with  his  then  so  deeply  loved  Anne 
Hathaway,  and  the  unutterable  gladness  he 
enjoyed  because  of  her  sharing  with  him  the 
excellent  brave  pastimes  of  that  memorable 
day. 

Wliilst  he  was  so  deeply  engaged  with 
such  thinking,  he  did  not  notice  he  had  a 
companion,  evidently  striving  to  keep  up 
with  him,  whom  he  had  just  passed.  This 
person  appeared  to  be,  by  his  dress,  a  young 
boy  of  some  gentle  family  ;  for  he  was  clad 
very  neatly  in  a  suit  of  fine  broadcloth,  of  a 
gay  orange-tawney  color,  with  good  kersey 
hose,  shoes  with  roses,  a  well  appointed  hat 
and  feather  on  his  head,  and  a  light  stick  or 
staff  in  his  hand.  In  person  he  was  of  an 
exceeding  elegant  shape,  indeed  such  deli- 
cate symmetry  of  limbs  is  rarely  to  be  met 
with  ;  and  in  features  he  was  of  a  fair  hand- 
someness, yet  of  a  complexion  so  wan  and 
sickly,  it  looked  as  though  he  was  fitter  to 
be  in  his  bed  than  to  be  a  traveller,  for  ever 


170 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


so  short  a  distance.  He  looked  fati^ied, 
and  it  was  manifest  he  could  ill  keep  up  with 
the  manly  strides  of  the  youthful  Shaks- 
peare. 

"  I  pray  you,  sweet  sir,  walk  not  so  fast, 
for  I  should  be  wondrous  glad  of  your  hon- 
est company." 

The  other  turned  round  somewhat  sur- 
prised, not  knowing  any  one  was  so  nigh 
him,  and  was  moved  with  extreme  pity  at 
the  shght  glance  he  took  of  the  pallid  suf- 
fering countenance  of  the  young  stranger. 
He  lessened  his  pace  on  tlie  instant. 

"  Go  you  far  on  tiiis  road,  my  young  mas- 
ter ?"  inquired  he  courteously. 

"  Truly,  I  know  not,"  replied  his  com- 
panion, in  a  manner  somewhat  hesitating; 
"  but  the  farther  I  get  from  the  place  I  iiave 
left,  the  more  pleased  I  shall  be." 

"  Yet  you  seem  in  no  way  fit  to  go  on  a 
journey,"  observed  William  Shakspeare,  in 
some  marvel  at  what  he  had  just  heard.  "  1 
doubt  you  are  strong  enough  for  much  walk- 
ing." 

"  I  have  been  in  a  great  sickness  a  long 
time,  sweet  sir,"  replied  the  other;  "but  as 
I  recovered,  I  found  such  villainy  approach- 
ing me,  that  I  thought  it  better  to  trust  to 
the  chance  of  perisiiing  on  a  strange  road 
than  remaining  where  I  was."  At  hearing 
this  his  companion  marvelled  the  more. 

"Keep  a  good  heart,  I  pray  you  !"  ex- 
claimed the  youthful  Shakspeare,  ready  at 
a  moment  to  sympathize  with  any  unliappy 
person.  "  If  it  please  you  to  let  me  bear 
you  company,  I  wiU  take  such  heed  of  you, 
you  shall  come  to  no  hurt.  But  to  what 
place  are  you  bound  ?" 

'•  To  any,  where  I  can  live  in  proper  hon- 
esty," replied  the  young  stranger.  "  I  will 
willingly  essay  my  strength  in  such  humble 
manner  of  living  as  I  can  get,  with  no  higher 
end  than  the  keeping  me  a  worthy  name." 

William  Shakspeare  said  nothing,  but  he 
thought  in  iiis  mind  his  fellow-traveller  had 
but  a  poor  chance  of  a  living,  relied  he  only 
on  his  strength,  and  resolved  at  least,  that, 
as  he  wanted  a  friend,  a  friend  he  should 
have.  With  the  true  delicacy  of  a  noble 
mind,  he  refrained  from  asking  him  any 
questions  which  might  seem  to  come  of  over 
curiousness,  but  began  to  talk  cheerfully  to 
him,  telling  him  to  hope  for  better  times,  and 
entertaining  him  with  such  pleasant  dis- 
course as  he  had  at  his  commandment.  And 
so  these  two  proceeded  together.  The  one 
in  the  full  strength  of  early  manhood,  and, 
though  bereft  of  his  happine.ss,  full  of  health 
and  hope — tlie  other,  apparently  in  the  fresh 
dawning  of  youth,  and  in  as  little  comfort  of 
body  as  of  mind. 


Methinks  this  chapter  in  no  case  ought  to 
be  brought  to  a  conclusion,  without  requir-  i 
ing  of  the  courteous  reader  especial  notice 
of  a  matter  therein  treated  ;  which,  it  is  to 
be  hoped,  will  be  to  his  singular  profit.  In 
the  development  of  this  my  story,  there  hath 
been  made  manifest  how  that  kind  of  love, 
which  is  merely  ideal,  endeth  in  a  complete 
nothingness,  as  far  as  its  object  is  concerned, 
it  being  only  a  fair  herald  of  a  more  natural 
passion  ;  but  in  the  later  pages  it  is  shown, 
that  the  affection  which  cometh  but  of  the 
delight  taken  by  the  senses  in  personal  come- 
liness, must  meet  with  a  still  more  unsatis- 
factory conclusion.  It  is  true  that  Nature 
hath  planted  in  tlie  human  heart  a  capacity 
for  enjoying  the  beautiful,  and  a  desire  to 
obtain  its  possession  ;  and  the  affections  of 
the  individual,  like  unto  clear  waters,  do  most 
perfectly  bear  in  them  the  resemblance  of 
whatsoever  shape  appeareth  to  them  in  most 
perfectness  ;  but  it  should  ever  be  borne  in 
mind,  that  there  are  beauties  of  far  sweeter 
and  lasting  value,  than  such  as  are  wont  to 
lie  on  the  surface  of  things,  and  that  these 
constitute  the  sole  proper  source  of  their 
admirableness.  The  flowers,  the  stars,  and 
every  form  of  matter,  animate  or  inanimate, 
impressed  with  the  configuration  most  pleas- 
ing to  the  sight,  possess  qualities  which  make 
them  the  love  of  the  poet  and  the  true  pliilo- 
sophic  sort  of  persons,  exceedingly  more  so 
than  their  mere  appearance.  They  exhibit 
signs  of  intelligence,  by  which  they  are 
known  to  be  part  of  tlie  universal  good  ;  and 
for  the  worth  they  show  are  worthily  appre- 
ciated. 

Such  should  it  be  with  things  that  more 
intimately  appertain  to  humanity.  The 
agreeable  face  and  graceful  person  are  the 
unprofitablest  of  objects,  unless  they  carry 
with  them  the  fairer  signs  of  mind  and  feel- 
ing. They  may  be  regarded  as  such  fruit 
as  come  of  plants  imperfectly  cultivated, 
that  look  tempting  to  the  eye,  but  are  in- 
tolerable to  the  Uiste;  and  save  the  pretty 
sort  of  way  in  which  they  do  garnish  their 
boughs,  are  of  no  goodness  whatsoever.  In 
this  same  goodness — which  is  nought  else 
but  another  name  for  intelligence — licth  the 
real  source  and  conclusion  of  all  honest  love. 
This  is  it  that  sows  the  seed — this  is  it  that 
obtains  infinite  crops  of  exquisite  sweet  fruit. 
Where  there  is  no  moral  excellence,  there 
can  never  be  any  moral  advantage.  The 
youthful  Shakspeare,  therefore,  in  showing, 
as  he  did,  a  totiil  indifference  to  aught  else 
save  the  personal  charms  of  the  blixMning 
daughter  of  John  Hathaway,  brought  on 
himself  the  positive  evil  which  proceedeth 
from  insufficiency  of  good.     But  thus  are 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


m 


the  marvellous  lessons  of  Nature  taught, 
and  how  oft  are  they  placed  before  us  in 
this  very  fashion  !  The  youth  of  both  sexes, 
full  of  the  delicious  sympathies  so  newly 
grown  within  their  breasts,  regard  in  the 
other,  symmetry  of  limb  and  loveliness  of 
feature,  as  vouchers  for  whatsoever  is  pro- 
perest  and  most  desirable,  and,  at  times,  do 
get  their  several  senses  so  intoxicated  by 
allowing  of  their  imaginations  to  be  excited 
by  the  strong  draughts  proceeding  from  rosy 
smiling  lips  and  lustrous  enticing  eyes,  that 
they  clean  forget  there  is  aught  else  in  the 
world  worthy  of  their  having.  The  capacity 
for  enjoyment  satiated,  quick  on  the  heels 
of  it  foUoweth  the  ordinary  ending  of  such 
foolishness. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  years,  it  is  incon- 
sistent with  experience  to  expect  the  human 
heart  to  be  philosophical.  Before  that  age, 
William  Shakspeare  found  his  whole  nature 
thrilled  with  a  passion  for  a  female  eight 
years  his  senior,  and  consequently,  in  the 
possession  of  every  charm  of  mature  woman- 
hood. He  revelled  in  the  delusive  gratitica- 
tion  of  an  attachment  placed  on  no  surer 
foundation  than  personal  beauty,  and  fixing 
his  happiness  there,  on  due  time  found  it 
levelled  to  the  dust.  The  result  hath  ren- 
dered him  a  homeless  adventurer,  banished 
from  his  domestic  hearth  to  seek,  amongst 
strangers,  that  comfort  he  had  lost  every 
hope  of  where  he  believed  it  to  be  most 
secure.  Now  must  he  work  out  the  penalty 
of  his  offence,  and,  by  his  example,  teach  a 
great  moral  lesson  unto  all  humanity,  which, 
perchance,  shall  not  be  altogether  lost  sight 
of  at  this  time,  or  at  any  other. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Example  I  fynde  of  Alesaundr  Nexam  as  he 
wryteth,  how  there  was  sumtyme  a  knyght 
came  from  ferr  cuntries  woude  seek  aventures. 
So  it  fortuned  to  a  forrest  wher  he  herd  a  grete 
noyce  of  a  beste  crying. 

Harleian  MSS.  No.  2247. 
The  misery  of  us  that  are  born  great. 
We  are  f»rced  to  woo, because  none  dare  woo  us; 
And  as  a  tyrant  doubles  with  his  words, 
And  fearfully  equivocates,  so  we 
Are  forced  to  express  our  violent  passions 
In  riddles  and  in  dreams,  and  leave  the  path 
Of  simple  virtue,  which  was  never  made 
To  seem  the  thing  it  is  not. 

Webster. 

"  I  FEAR  me  I  cannot  proceed  further," 
said  the  younger  of  the  two  travellers,  lean- 


ing against  a  tree,  with  head  drooping,  and 
every  sign  in  him  of  thorough  exhaustion 
and  faintness. 

"  I  beseech  you  good  Bertram,  lean  on  me !" 
exclaimed  William  Shakspeare,  urgently. 
"  Let  us  get  out  of  this  wood  as  speedily  as 
we  may,  for  the  sun  hath  set  some  time,  and 
we  are  liked  to  get  benighted  in  this  strange 
place,  stay  we  where  we  are  much  longer." 

"  I  doubt  my  strength  will  hold  sufficient, 
yet  I  will  strive  my  utmost,"  replied  his 
young  companion,  in  a  very  feeble  voice. 
Thereupon  he  leaned  his  head  upon  the 
other's  shoulder,  whilst  the  latter  held  him 
round  the  waist  with  his  left  arm,  and  thus 
they  proceeded,  at  a  slow  pace,  following  a 
path  which  led  through  a  thick  wood  on  each 
side  of  them.  The  trees,  principally  hazel, 
were  in  their  freshest  leaves,  save  some  that 
were  only  a  budding,  and  those  of  the  wild 
plum  and  cherry  were  clothed  in  all  their 
delicate  bloom.  The  roots  of  the  larger  trees 
were  wrapt  in  a  soft  covering  of  dainty  green 
moss,  through  which  the  lance-shaped  leaves 
of  the  lily  of  the  valley  made  their  appear- 
ance in  countless  numbers — seemingly  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  see — mingled  with  a 
very  prodigal  display,  not  only  of  all  manner 
of  seasonable  ilowers  of  divers  colors,  but 
with  numberless  plants  and  herbs,  some 
savory  and  others  noxious,  that  thrust  them- 
selves out  at  every  corner.  Nothing  was 
visible  around  but  trees  and  underwood  such 
as  hath  been  described,  save  here  and  there, 
when  they  came  to  an  open  place  where  the 
wood  had  been  thinned ;  and  then  they  be- 
held some  once  goodly  tree  recently  felled, 
stripped  of  its  branches,  barked,  and  lying 
dn  the  ground  a  shapeless,  naked  trunk  ;  and 
in  other  places  were  small  logs  for  burning, 
piled  up  in  heaps,  with  great  store  of  hurdles, 
bavins,  faggots,  and  other  things  belonging 
to  the  woodman's  craft. 

It  was  evident  the  men  had  left  work — 
the  whole  place  was  so  still — not  a  sound 
heard  the  young  travellers  when  they  ceased 
talking,  but  the  monotonous  note  of  the 
cuckoo.  The  path  was  not  in  any  way  a 
pleasant  one,  for  it  was  in  a  hard,  rough 
soil,  with  deep  ruts  on  each  side,  formed  by 
the  passage  of  heavy  carts  when  the  ground 
was  in  a  softer  state,  and  led  now  up  and 
now  down — crossed  occasionally  by  other 
paths  of  a  like  appearance,  with  some  nar- 
rower and  less  worn,  which  appeared  to  be 
only  for  foot  passengers,  with  room  for  but 
one  at  a  time.  Yet  along  this  unpleasant 
way  the  two  pursued  their  journey  in  the 
manner  already  mentioned ;  the  more  youth- 
ful one  manifestly  sinking  at  every  step, 
despite  of  the  other's  tender  charge  of  him. 


173 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


and  encouraging  speech  to  help  him  along. 
Truly,  it  was  a  sight  well  worthy  to  be 
looked  on,  these  gentle  persons  travelling  in 
so  friendly  a  way,  the  handsome  manly  face 
of  William  Shakspeare  beaming  with  a 
sweet  benevolence,  as  with  all  the  tender 
sympathy  of  his  nature,  he  gazed  upon  tlie 
upturned  pallid  countenance  of  his  more 
youthful  associate ;  but  although  tlie  latter 
strove,  as  forcibly  as  lie  could,  to  get  along, 
it  was  easy  to  see,  by  the  languid  style  in 
which  he  drew  one  leg  after  tlie  other,  and 
the  quick  paling  of  his  lips,  that  he  coidd 
continue  even  this  sort  of  progress  but  a  very 
little  longer. 

"  Cheer  thee,  sweet  sir !"  exclaimed  the 
elder  of  the  two,  in  tlie  kindest  accents, 
"  thou  wilt  be  better  anon.  Put  thy  foot 
forward  gallantly,  we  shall  be  out  of  this 
wood  straight,  and  get  us  to  a  village  where 
we  can  have  fair  lodging  for  the  night." 

"  Alack  !  I  feel  sinking  rapidly,"  replied 
the  other,  evidently  in  extreme  faintness. 
"  Bear  me  up  strongly,  I  pray  you — the 
ground  seenieth  to  be  falling." 

"  Prithee  heed  it  not  at  ail — 'tis  mere  fan- 
tasy," said  William  iShakspeare,  holding  him 
as  affectionately  as  a  brother.  "  Courage, 
my  young  master,  our  journey  will  be  at  an 
end  speedily — so  we  shall  have  brave  resting, 
continue  we  to  proceed.  Woe  is  me,  he 
hath  swooned!"  The  speaker  stopped  in 
great  anxiety  and  pitifulness,  for  he  had 
noted  the  arm  of  his  companion  drop  list- 
lessly off  his  shoulder,  and  the  head  fall  ?o 
droopingly,  the  youth  must  have  gone  to  the 
ground  had  it  not  been  for  the  care  of  his 
tender  guardian.  The  first  thought  of  the 
latter  was  to  carry  his  now  helpless  fellow-* 
traveller — as  no  time  was  to  be  lost  in  get- 
ting out  of  the  wood  before  nightfall — and 
the  next  minute  the  young  poet  was  pro- 
ceeding, gallantly  bearing  the  other  in  his 
arms,  with  all  proper  gentleness,  till  at  last 
he  was  obliged  to  put  him  down  to  rest 
himself. 

His  anxiety  of  mind  may  be  imagined 
when  he  beheld  by  the  dim  twilight,  the 
countenance  of  his  young  companion  set,  as 
it  were,  in  the  pale  complexion  of  death, 
with  his  limbs  motionless,  and  his  eyes 
closed.  So  sad  a  sight  smote  him  to  the 
very  heart.  What  to  do  he  knew  not.  The 
shadows  of  the  night  were  gathering  fast 
around  him,  and  no  habitation  near,  or  sign 
of  help  at  hand.  To  stay  in  the  wood  all 
night  without  succor  were  to  make  certain 
for  his  associate  what  already  looked  more 
than  possible — his  decease;  and  yet  to  get 
out  of  it  he  knew  no  means,  for  although  he 
had  gone  a  great  way,  still  in  which  ever 


I  way  he  looked,  nought  met  his  eye  but  im- 
I  penetrable  dark  masses  of  trees  and  shrubs. 
j  As  he  made  the  seeming  lifeless  Bertram 
I  recline  aganst  his  breast — supporting  him 
with  one  arm  to  beguile  the  other  of  its 
I  weariness — whilst  gazing  on  the  pallid  as- 
I  pect,  he  was  so  moved  by  pity  that  he  scarce 
knew  what  to  be  a  doing.  All  at  once,  as 
he  was  making  the  saddest  reflections  at  the 
poor  prospect  he  had  of  saving  him,  he  heard 
the  faint  barking  of  a  dog,  to  which  he  gave 
on  the  instant,  so  huge  a  welcome  as  he  had 
rarely  given  even  to  what  had  seemed  to  him 
the  pleasantest  of  human  voices.  It  afford- 
ed a  most  sweet  assurance  of  present  helj\ 
for,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  it  was  a  sign  of 
some  dwelling  nigh  at  hand,  or  of  some  per- 
son or  persons  in  the  wood,  of  whom  he 
might  have  the  assistance  he  required. 

Presently  he  shouted  as  loud  as  he  could 
to  attract  the  attention  of  such  people  as 
were  within  hail,  thinking  it  could  not  fail 
of  drawing  them  to  tlie  spot  where  he  was. 
He  listened  with  extreme  anxiousness,  and 
a  moment  after  again  heard  the  barking. 
The  sound  seemed  to  come  from  some  place 
considerably  in  advance  of  him,  so  taking  up 
his  burthen  more  tenderly  than  ever,  he 
proceeded  along  the  path,  till  he  came  to 
where  another  path  crossed  it,  and  here  he 
shouted  again,  and  listened  witli  a  hke  in- 
tense anxiety.  It  was  true  he  heard  the  cry 
of  the  dog  repeated,  but  he  heard  no  answer- 
ing shout — which  was  what  he  most  desired ; 
and  this  gave  him  some  uneasiness.  He 
turned  the  way,  where  he  thought  the  animal 
and  those  he  belonged  to  might  be  found, 
until  somewhat  weary  of  what  he  carried, 
he  placed  him  on  his  feet  as  before  ;  and 
then  made  the  wood  resound,  he  set  up  so 
main  a  cry.  To  his  exceeding  disappoint- 
ment nought  replied  to  him  but  the  hound, 
and  in  not  much  louder  tones  than  at  first, 
At  this,  the  idea  struck  him,  that  he  might 
bring  help  to  his  fellow-traveller  a  famous 
deal  more  quickly  than  could  he  bring  him 
where  it  migiit  be  found,  so  placing  of  Ber-  . 
tram  upon  a  mossy  bank  about  a  foot  or  so 
above  the  path,  with  his  back  reclining 
against  the  broad  trunk  of  a  tree,  behind 
which  he  flung  his  bundle  and  stick,  he 
first  of  all  made  the  piercingest  halloo  he 
could,  and  when  he  heard  the  same  reply  as 
hitherto,  he  started  oft'  at  the  top  of  his  speed 
toward  the  place  whence  the  cry  of  the  dog 
came.  By  stopping  at  intervals  and  repeat- 
ing his  shouting,  and  marking  the  direction 
of  the  beast's  bark,  he  soon  found  to  his 
marvellous  content  it  gradually  became 
louder  to  his  ear,  till  it  was  so  distinct  tlio 
animal  could  not  be  many  yards  from  him, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


ITO 


—and  yet  he  had  heard  no  human  voice, 
tior  seen  the  slightest  sign  of  habitation. 

He  had  turned  down  all  sorts  of  paths 
narrow  and  broad — sometimes  forced  to 
thrust  his  way  through  tlie  crossing  branches, 
the  trees  grew  so  close,  and  at  others  to  pick 
his  way  with  more  care  than  speed,  the  path 
was  so  crooked  and  uneven  ;  at  last  he  came 
out  of  this  thick  wood  into  an  open  space 
and  thought  he  perceived  before  him  some- 
thing resembling  a  thick  volume  of  smoke. 
He  approached  it  closely,  and  discovered 
that  it  proceeded  from  a  monstrous  black 
mass  which  he  speedily  recognized  as  one 
of  those  heaps  of  dry  underwood  that  are 
usually  kept  burning  slowly  a  day  or  two 
that  tliey  may  be  turned  into  charcoal.'  The 
yelping  of  the  dog  was  now  incessant  and 
so  close,  there  was  no  occasion  for  more 
shouting.  Directly  William  Shakspeare 
passed  the  pile  of  charcoal  he  lielield  both 
the  animal  and  his  master  standing  in  the 
door-way  of  a  mud  cabin,  in  which  a  blaz- 
ing fire  of  logs  threw  so  great  a  light,  the 
dingy  forms  of  the  charcoal-burner  and  his 
little  four-footed  companion  as  black  as  him- 
self might  be  seen  distinctly.  The  former 
appeared  to  be  an  old  man  of  a  very  crab- 
bed visage,  short  of  stature,  thick-limbed, 
and  hump-backed.  How  he  was  attired  it 
was  not  easy  to  say,  for  his  garments  seem- 
ed of  a  color  with  his  skin — as  though  he 
had  been  charred  all  over — but  there  he 
stood  idly  at  the  door  of  his  habitation,  and 
doubtless  there  he  had  been  standing  the 
whilst  he  had  heard  the  shouting  of  the 
young  traveller ;  and  yet  he  had  never  at- 
tempted to  give  him  any  answer,  or  move 
from  the  spot  to  show  that  help  was  at  hand. 

"  Why  dost  make  such  a  bawling,  and  be 
hanged  to  thee  !"  exclaimed  the  hunch-back 
surlily,  as  soon  as  he  cauglit  sight  of  the 
youth,  the  cur  the  whilst  yelping  with  all 
his  might. 

"  I  pray  you,  come  with  me  on  the  in- 
stant !"  said  William  Shakspeare,  with  ex- 
treme earnestness.  "  I  have  a  friend  hard 
by  like  to  be  dying  for  the  lack  of  assistance." 

"  'Sdeath  !  thou  dost  not  take  me  to  be 
so  huge  a  fool  surely,"  replied  the  charcoal- 
burner,  moving  never  a  whit  from  his  place. 
"  Body  o'  me,  'twould  be  a  fine  thing  was  I 
to  take  to  running  about  the  wood,  at  this 
late  hour,  at  any  body's  asking.  Get  thee 
gone  straight,  or  may  be  the  dog  will  give 
thee  a  sharp  bite  o'  the  legs,  or  I  a  smart 
crack  o'  the  crown."  At  another  time  such 
a  threat  would  have  cost  him  dear ;  but  the 
other  was  too  wise  not  to  know  that  vio- 
lence would  go  no  way  towards  the  assist' 
ing  of  his  fellow-traveller. 


'•  I  beseech  you  come  to  my  poor  friend's 
help,  and  I  will  pay  you  handsomely!"  ex- 
claimed he,  with  more  urgency,  "  and  here 
is  some  earnest  your  kind  labor  shall  not  go 
unrewarded."  So  saying,  lie  took  from  his 
purse  a  couple  of  silver  groats,  which  he 
placed  in  the  old  fellow's  hand.  The  sight 
of  the  purse  and  the  touch  of  the  money,  as 
had  been  anticipated,  had  an  instantaneous 
effect. 

"  Prithee  tell  me,  good  sir,  where  your 
friend  may  be  found,  and  I  will  give  him 
what  help  I  can  without  feil,"  answered  the 
hunch-back,  putting  his  foot  forward  very 
readily ;  and  then  cried  out  angrily  to  his 
yelping  cur,  to  whom  he  gave  a  slight  kick, 
"  a  murrain  on  thee — stay  thy  rude  noise  ; 
how  darest  thou  bark  at  so  worthy  a  per- 
son !"  Whereof  the  consequence  was,  that 
in  a  very  few  minutes  the  whole  three  were 
trudging  amicably  together  in  search  of  the 
helpless  Bertram.  Young  Shakspeare  soon 
became  somewhat  bewildered  as  to  the  path 
he  should  follow,  he  having  in  his  speed 
taken  no  great  note  of  the  right  one  ;  so  he 
went  up  one  and  down  another,  without  ex- 
actly knowing  he  was  going  his  proper  way 
or  not.  Nevertheless,  after  proceeding  a 
considerable  distance  with  no  profit,  he  be- 
gan to  have  a  suspicion  he  had  come  in  a 
wrong  direction,  and  hinted  as  much  to  the 
charcoal-burner,  which  brought  them  to  a 
full  stop,  and  a  consultation  as  to  what  was 
best  to  be  done. 

'•  Didst  heed  nothing  anigh  the  place  you 
left  your  friend  ?"  inquired  the  hunch-back. 
"  Nothing  notable  in  the  tree,  or  in  the  place 
close  upon  it,  by  which  you  might  distin- 
guish it  again  ?" 

"  As  I  remember  there  was  something," 
replied  the  other  ;  "  I  perceived  a  number 
of  different  small  animals — I  know  not  of 
what  sort,  for  I  could  not  distinguish  them — 
hanging  from  the  tree's  branches." 

"  Body  o'  me !"  exclaimed  the  charcoal- 
burner,  in  a  sort  of  famous  surprise,  "  that 
be  the  Tyburn  oak,  as  we  call  it  in  these 
parts,  for  'tis  used  by  the  keepers  as  a  gib- 
bet, upon  which  they  do  execution  upon  all 
manner  of  weasles,  pole-cats,  foxes,  owls» 
shrikes,  and  other  wild  destructive  things 
that  are  caught  in  traps,  set  in  diflTerent  parts 
of  these  woods ;  and  it  lies  down  in  Dead 
Man's  Hollow,  at  least  a  full  mile  from  this. 
Had  you  turned  to  the  left  instead  of  to  the 
riglit,  when  starting  from  my  cot,  we  had 
reached  it  long  since." 

For  this  mistake  there  was  no  remedy  but 
to  retrace  their  steps,  which  they  did  with 
as  much  speed  as  they  could, — William 
Shakspeare  somewhat  uneasy  at  having  left 


174 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAICSPEARE. 


his  young  companion  for  so  long  a  time,  and 
his  guide  in  an  eager  humor  to  be  touching 
some  more  of  the  other's  money.  In  due 
time  they  arrived  at  tlie  tree,  the  same  tree 
out  of  aU  contradiction  from  which  the  lat- 
ter had  started  in  pursuit  of  assistance  for 
his  friend  ;  for  there  lay  behind  it  the  bun- 
ble  and  the  stick  he  had  thrown  there,  but 
of  Bertram  there  was  no  sign.  Tliis  put 
him  in  a  fearful  perplexity.  He  thought, 
perchance,  on  returning  to  consciousness, 
and  tinding  himself,  as  he  might  think, 
abandoned,  the  youth  had  strayed  away  in 
hopes  of  discovering  a  path  that  led  out  of 
the  wood ;  and  this  idea  put  him  in  huge 
discomfort ;  for,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  the 
young  stranger  was  almost  sure  to  be  lost 
in  the  numberless  different  paths  that  led 
liere  and  there  in  all  directions.  He  pres- 
ently fell  to  acquainting  the  hunch-back 
with  his  thoughts. 

"  I  doubt  that,  master,"  replied  the  char- 
coal-burner ;  "  an'  he  were  in  such  a  strait 
as  you  have  said,  methinks  it  must  needs  be 
he  could  have  been  in  no  case  for  further 
journeying.  I  am  more  apt  to  think  he  hath 
been  moved  by  other  persons." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?"  inquired  the  other. 
"  I  saw  no  one  in  the  wood  but  ourselves." 

"  That  might  be,  master,"  said  the  hunch- 
back ;  "  but  at  this  late  hour,  when  the 
place  scemeth  to  be  deserted  of  every  one, 
the  Lord  Urban,  whose  property  it  is,  as 
well  as  great  part  of  the  surrounding  coun- 
try, wandereth  alone  in  it  for  hours  toge- 
ther, and  'tis  like  enough  my  lord  hath  fal- 
len on  your  friend  in  his  rambles,  and  see- 
ing how  much  he  wanted  immediate  suc- 
cor, as  you  have  said,  hath  borne  him  to  his 
own  fair  mansion,  scarce  half  a  mile  from 
this  place." 

"  It  may  be,"  observed  the  young  traveller, 
considering  the  probability  of  what  had  just 
been  advanced  ;  "  but  who  is  this  Lord  Ur- 
ban, for  I  should  be  glad  to  know  if  my 
friend  is  in  safe  hands  ?" 

"  Be  assured  he  cannot  be  better  off","  an- 
swered the  hunch-back,  "  and  if  you  will 
with  me,  and  share  the  shelter  and  the  cheer 
of  my  cot,  I  will  tell  you  whatever  you  may 
require  concerning  of  him,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing direct  you  tiie  nighest  way  to  his  man- 
sion." 

Believing  that  nothing  more  desirable 
could  be  done,  William  Shakspeare  assented 
cheerfully  to  the  charcoal-burner's  proposal, 
on  condition  that  they  should  previously 
search  about  where  they  were,  to  see  if  the 
lost  youth  had  lingered  in  the  neighborhood. 
Finding  notliing  of  him,  they  then  bent  their 
steps  towards  the  mud  cot,  and  in  a  few 


minutes  entered  it  together.  The  new 
comer  found  it  the  most  primitive  habitation 
he  had  ever  been  in,  in  all  his  days,  tliere 
being  no  windows  to  it,  tlie  ground  consti- 
tuting the  floor,  in  the  centre  of  which  was 
a  large  fire  burning,  whicli  the  hunch-back 
quickly  replenished  with  fresh  logs.  The 
smoke  had  no  other  way  of  exit  but  through 
the  open  door,  and  therefore  gave  a  most 
dingy  coat  to  the  whole  interior.  On  the 
fire  was  a  sort  of  kettle  swung.  A  foot  or 
two  from  it  was  a  table  and  chair,  at  the 
other  side  a  kind  of  bed,  made  of  branches 
of  green  broom,  with  a  log  of  wood  by  way 
of  pillow,  and  in  the  corner  a  rude  cup- 
board; beside  which  there  were  in  other 
parts-  of  this  chamber  divers  woodman's 
tools,  and  spades,  gins,  and  other  instru- 
ments. Against  one  part  of  the  wall  was  a 
hare  hanging,  and  nearly  opposite  a  leather 
jerkin. 

The  charcoal-burner  wiped  the  chair  for 
his  visitor,  who  in  honest  truth  was  glad  to 
find  such  resting,  did  the  same  office  for  the 
table,  and  presently  placed  on  it,  with  tren- 
ciiers,  knives,  latten  spoons,  and  other  neces- 
saries, a  smoking  dish  of  stewed  coneys, 
that  smelt  so  savory,  the  young  traveller  did 
not  require  much  pressing  to  induce  him  to 
have  at  them  ;  and  his  companion,  making 
himself  a  stool  out  of  a  tall  log,  eat  and 
drank  with  such  extreme  heartiness,  it  could 
not  fail  being  a  provocation  of  itself ;  but 
the  edge  of  the  other's  appetite  was  sharp 
enough  without  such  setting,  in  consequence 
of  a  long  and  tiresome  journey,  and  he  made 
as  good  a  meal  as  he  had  done  any  day  of 
his  life  before.  The  old  fellow  then  gossip- 
ped  about  his  lord  sundry  marvellous  stories, 
till  the  other  gave  a  hint  he  would  be  glad 
of  getting  some  sleep. 

"  If  you  can  bring  yourself  to  accept  of 
such  poor  lying  as  I  have,  'tis  at  your  com- 
mandment," replied  the  charcoal-burner, 
pointing  to  the  bed  of  broom-branches  at  the 
other  side  of  the  fire. 

"  Truly,  I  tliink  it  as  pleasant  a  couch, 
for  one  as  weary  as  am  I,  as  a  king's  bed," 
answered  the  other  ;  "  but  how  mean  you  to 
fcike  your  sleep  ?  I  like  not  depriving  you 
of  your  customary  comfort." 

'■  Heed  me  not,  master.  I  can  sleep  on  a 
chair  as  fast  as  I  can  anywhere,"  said  the 
old  fellow.  Whereupon,  his  young  compan- 
ion presently  went,  and  threw  himself  upon 
the  charcoal-burner's  bed,  and  the  otlier  sat 
himself  in  the  chair,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
it  appeared  as  if  both  were  in  as  sound 
sleeping  as  tliey  could  well  have.  But  as 
regards  the  hunch-back,  his  slumber  was 
but  feigned.     He  found  he  could  get  no  rest 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


176 


for  thinking  of  the  young  stranger's  purse, 
with  a  greedy  longing  to  make  it  his  own, 
and  yet  he  could  not  resolve  liimself  into  at- 
tempting to  deprive  him  of  it.  He  was 
striving  in  his  mind,  to  find  some  way  by 
which  he  might  do  so  in  perfect  security. 
If  he  took  it  privily  as  he  slept,  he  might  dis- 
cover the  loss  on  waking,  and  could  not  fail 
of  suspecting  the  robber,  and  would  straight- 
way demand  its  restitution,  or  might  speed 
to  the  Lord  Urban's  where  he  was  bound  as 
he  said,  and  acquaint  some  of  them  there 
with  his  having  been  so  plundered,  by  which 
speedy  punishment  was  likely  to  follow. 
This  suited  the  charcoal-burner  not  at  all. 
Still,  he  was  intent  upon  having  the  money 
— for  the  demon  of  covetousness  had  a  fast 
hold  on  him — but  hours  passed  without  his 
coming  to  any  determination.  At  last,  an 
idea  was  started  in  him,  that  appeared  to 
give  him  the  purse,  and  provide  against  all 
dreaded  consequences  ;  yet,  such  was  the 
character  of  this  idea,  that  as  soon  as  it  was 
well  conceived  of  him,  he  gazed  stealthily 
round  the  chamber,  to  note  if  any  were  nigh 
enough  to  get  note  of  it.  Assured  that  none 
were  within  the  cabin  save  the  stranger, 
and  that,  as  his  breathing  declared,  he  was 
in  a  deep  sleep,  the  hunch-back  quietly  rose 
from  his  seat,  and  cautiously  picking  some- 
thing from  a  corner,  stole  with  the  noiseless 
step  of  a  cat,  out  of  the  place. 

The  youthful  Shakspeare  had  got  himself 
into  a  famous  dream.  He  fancied  he  was 
in  a  fierce  battle,  in  company  with  his  once 
notable  kind  friends  the  two  young  knights, 
wherein,  after  much  brave  figliting  on  his 
part,  he  had  been  overthrown,  and  lay  so  sore 
wounded  he  could  not  move.  He  heard  the 
battle  raging  around  him — the  clashing  of 
the  swords,  the  blows  of  the  curtle-axes,  the 
cries  of  the  combatants,  and  the  groans  of 
the  wounded,  and  these  so  nigh,  it  seemed 
plain  he  should  be  crushed  to  death  in  the 
melee,  still  he  had  no  power  of  moving, 
strove  he  ever  so  ;  and  this  horrible  dread  so 
increased,  that  upon  a  sudden  rush  of  the 
battle  towards  him  so  tumultuously  it  was 
manifest  his  doom  was  sealed,  divers  fell  so 
heavily  upon  him,  he  started  at  the  shock 
and  awoke.  He  could  still  hear  the  clash- 
ing of  the  swords  though  his  eyes  were  wide 
open ;  but  gradually  he  became  conscious, 
as  he  looked  about  him,  he  had  been  in  a 
dream,  and  he  remembered  where  he  was 
lying.  The  fire  in  the  centre  of  the  hovel 
was  now  burning  low,  so  as  to  throw  an  in- 
distinct lurid  light  about  the  place — the 
dreamer  looked  for  his  host ;  but  there  was 
the  table,  with  the  supper  things  still  un- 
cleared away,  and  there  the  chair,  in  which 


he  had  last  seen  the  charcoal-burner,  reposing 
himself  for  his  last  night's  rest,  bare  of  a 
tenant ;  nor  did  he  appear  to  be  anywhere 
in  the  cabin.  At  this  discovery,  the  dream- 
er marvelled  somewhat.  As  he  listened 
more  attentively,  his  quick  sense  of  hearing 
could  plainly  distinguish,  that  what  he  had 
taken  to  be  the  noise  of  swords  clashing  to- 
gether, was  the  sharpening  of  some  weapon 
with  a  stone.  Whereupon,  he  fell  into  a 
greater  wonder  than  before.  It  seemed 
strange  the  hunch-back  should  want  to  be 
sharpening  of  anything  at  that  hour.  On 
a  sudden  he  called  to  mind  the  covetous 
looks  of  the  old  fellow  whenever  he  glanced 
at  his  purse,  and  then  he  had  some  suspi- 
cions the  other  meant  him  no  good. 

In  a  moment  he  reached  down  the  old 
jerkin  that  was  hanging  on  the  wall,  and 
with  it  covered  the  log  of  wood  that  had 
served  for  a  stool,  which  he  laid  in  the  exact 
place  in  which  he  had  been  recently  lying, 
keeping  himself  back  in  the  deep  shadow, 
for  the  purpose  of  watching  to  note  whether 
his  suspicions  were  well  or  ill-grounded. 
Presently,  he  beheld  the  charcoal-burner 
with  a  very  devilish  visage,  as  it  appeared 
by  the  light  of  the  fire  cast  upon  it,  enter 
the  hovel,  and  stealthily  approach  his  bed, 
with  a  woodman's  bill  in  his  hand,  the  edge 
of  which  he  was  feeling  with  his  thumb, 
mayhap  to  note  if  it  was  sharp  enough  for 
his  purpose.  In  the  mind  of  the  youthful 
Shakspeare,  there  now  could  not  be  a  doubt 
of  the  old  fellow's  murderous  intentions. 
Indeed  the  eager,  cautious,  fiend-like  look  he 
had  as  he  crept  along  with  his  \\  eapon,  was 
sufficient  evidence  of  the  deadliness  of  his 
object.  The  supposed  sleeper  lay  still  as 
death  close  against  the  wall,  and  that  portion 
of  the  chamber  being  fartherest  from  the 
fire,  it  was  so  dark  no  object  could  be  seen, 
and  about  the  bed  of  broom,  there  was  only 
so  much  light  as  to  see  forms  without  clear- 
ly distinguishing  them. 

The  hunch-back  approached  the  bed 
closely.  He  stopped  as  he  got  nigh  to  the 
top  ot  it.  At  this,  William  Shakspeare  was 
in  some  apprehension  the  other  would  spy 
the  cheat,  and  was  preparing  himself  for  a 
desperate  conflict,  if  such  should  be  the  case. 
However,  presently,  he  beheld  his  treach- 
erous host  lift  his  weapon  above  his  head, 
and  the  next  moment  it  came  down  with  such 
monstrous  force,  it  cut  through  the  jerkin, 
and  stuck  firm  in  the  log  beneath.  Then 
the  pretended  sleeper  sprung  from  his  con- 
cealment, but  not  in  time  to  secure  the  vil- 
lain, who,  the  instant  he  heard  the  rusthng 
of  his  intended  victim  as  he  rose  from  his 
hiding,  saw  clearly  enough  he  had  been 


176 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


foiled  in  his  murderous  purpose,  and  with 
a  muttered  execration  rushed  from  the  hovel 
at  the  top  of  his  speed,  pursued  by  his  dog, 
who  had  been  a  curious  spectator  of  the 
whole  scene.  The  other  did  not  think  it  ad- 
visable to  follow  them  into  the  intricacies 
of  the  wood  at  such  a  time,  so  he  first  pul- 
led out  the  bill  from  the  log,  the  which  took 
all  his  strength  to  do,  it  was  buried  so  deep 
in  the  wood,  meaning  to  use  it  in  liis  own 
defence  should  there  be  occasion  ;  then 
made  the  fire  burn  bravely,  resolving  to  wait 
where  he  was  till  daylight. 

Finding  himself  in  no  way  molested  after 
some  time,  he  went  to  the  door  and  looked 
out.  The  heap  of  cliarcoal  was  still  smok- 
ing. All  around  lay  the  spreading  trees, 
and  al)ove,  the  cold  grey  sky,  such  as  it  ap- 
peareth  in  the  early  morning.  The  stillness 
was  most  profound  ;  but  this  lasted  only  a 
brief  wiiilo.  Presently,  the  wind  came 
sweeping  among  the  leaves,  sighing  heavily 
as  if  in  a  great  weariness,  and  making  a 
notable  trembling  of  all  the  tender  green 
things  it  passed  over,  as  if  tiiey  liked  not  the 
approach  of  such  a  visitor.  It  died  away, 
and  all  was  still  again.  Again  it  rushed 
onward  in  its  broad  path  with  the  like  con- 
sequences, and  anon,  the  whole  wood  was 
hushed  into  a  deep  sleep :  and  so  it  continued. 
After  an  hour  or  so  of  these  changes,  ob- 
served by  the  young  poet  with  such  pleasure 
as  none  but  minds  like  his,  so  perfectly  at- 
tuned to  the  sweet  harmonies  of  nature,  can 
be  familiar  with,  on  a  sudden,  he  heard  a  slight 
chirping  ;  then  another  in  a  different  direc- 
tion, and  answering  to  that  a  third,  and  ere 
another  minute  had  passed,  there  was  so 
goodly  a  chorus  of  chirpings,  whistling, 
warbling,  and  all  manner  of  such  choice 
singing,  from  the  whole  neighborhood,  as  was 
quite  ravishing  to  hear.  Then  numberless 
small  birds,  of  different  hues,  were  seen 
busily  whetting  of  their  beaks  against  the 
tiny  twigs,  or  hopping  in  and  out  amid  the 
branches,  or  descending  to  the  ground,  feed- 
ing on  such  palatable  things  as  they  could 
find  ;  and  in  noting  of  their  difTerent  songs, 
their  pretty  ways,  and  their  soft  glossy  jilu- 
mage,  the  youthful  Shakspeare  forgot  all 
thoughts  of  preparing  himself  against  threat- 
ened murder.  Indeed,  he  could  not  enter- 
tain any  idea  of  violence  amongst  such 
pleasant  happiness  as  now  surrounded  him. 
After  enjoying  of  this  fair  scene  for  some 
time,  and  impressed  with  the  conviction  the 
charcoal-burner  had  no  mind  to  return,  fear- 
ing to  be  punished  for  his  villainy,  the  young 
traveller  once  more  took  to  his  bundle  and 
stick,  and  ventured  out  of  the  hovel,  in  the 
expectation  of  meeting  some  one  or  another 


coming  to  his  work,  who  would  be  his  guide 
to  the  Lord  Urban's  mansion,  in  case  he 
should  not  be  able  to  find  it  by  following  the 
direction  given  by  the  murderous  hunch-back 
the  preceaing  night.  He  proceeded  on  his 
path,  bent  upon  ascertaining  as  well  as  he 
could  how  his  young  friend  had  fared,  and 
then  continuing  his  journey  as  speedily  as 
he  might.  He  met  nothing,  save  the  proper 
denizens  of  the  wood,  coneys,  hares,  and 
sundry  different  sorts  of  birds,  who  speedily 
took  themselves  elsewhere  at  his  approach, 
till  he  turned  the  comer  of  the  path  ;  and 
then  he  stopped  suddenly,  for  he  beheld  a 
scene,  the  like  of  which  he  had  never  wit- 
nessed before.  Opposite  him,  leaning  against 
a  tree,  stood  a  tall  man,  apparently  of  some 
fifty  years  or  so,  negligently  clothed  in 
handsome  apparelling.  His  countenance 
was  the  most  woe-begone  he  had  ever  seen, 
pale,  haggard,  and  care-worn,  with  misery 
written  in  every  line  ;  notwithstanding  which 
there  was  something  so  truly  noble  in  his 
features,  that  the  grief  they  expressed  seem- 
ed as  though  exalted  beyond  the  reach  of 
ordinary  sympathy.  His  arm  rest^ig  against 
the  tree  aff'orded  a  support  for  his  head,  in 
which  position  he  had  placed  himself,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  ever 
and  anon,  giving  of  such  groans  and  deep 
sighs  as  were  exceeding  pitiful  to  hear. 
Presently  he  moved,  clasped  his  hands  forci- 
bly together,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  the 
sky  with  a  look  so  heart-rending,  he  who 
alone  saw  it  could  never  forget  it.  Sorrow 
in  any,  appealeth  to  the  heart  of  the  specta- 
tor ;  but  when  the  majesty  of  manhood  put- 
teth  on  its  sad  livery,  there  is  no  such 
moving  sigiit  in  the  whole  world. 

The  stranger  then  took  to  walking  two  or 
three  paces,  to  and  fro,  in  the  path  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  gi-ound,  and  his  aspect 
bearing  the  signs  of  a  consuming  grief. 
Again  he  stopped — and  the  expression  (;f  his 
countenance  changed  greatly — it  bore  a  ter- 
rible suspiciousness  ;  and  then  anger,  scorn, 
and  hatred  followed  each  other  rapidly. 

"Infamous  wretch!"  exclaimed  he,  in  a 
voice  so  hollow  and  broken,  it  did  not  appear 
to  belong  to  a  living  creature  ;  '"  her  punish- 
ment hath  been  as  intolerable  as  her  crime ! 
'Tis  fit — 'tis  fit  such  guilt  should  be  so  vis- 
ited. A  most  just  judgment — a  proper 
vengeance."  At  this  he  walked  about  as 
before,  and  soon  returned  to  the  more  quiet 
sadness  he  had  at  first  exhibited  ;  and  then 
he  groaned,  and  smote  his  breast  with  his 
clenched  fist,  and  shook  his  head  most  woe- 
fully, and  n^utterod  something  which  could 
not  be  licard.  The  youthful  Shakspeare, 
with  a  natural  delicacy,  liking  not  lo  be  seen 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


177 


taking  note  of  the  stranger's  actions,  was 
turning  away,  when  he  was  discovered. 

"  Ah,  fellow,  what  dost  here  ?"  angrily 
cried  the  distracted  gentleman,  rushing  upon 
him  with  the  speed  of  a  young  deer  ;  and 
then  placing  himself  in  his  path,  appeared 
to  examine  him  Mith  a  severe  scrutiny.  A 
glance  seemed  to  suffice,  for  the  expression 
of  his  features  changed  instantly ;  and  he 
spoke  in  a  gentler  voice,  "  Heed  not  any- 
thing you  may  have  heard,"  said  he,  putting 
his  hand  on  the  youth's  shoulder.  "  I  am 
subject  to  strange  fits — and  I  rave  ahout  I 
know  not  what.  I  pray  you,  think  not 
hardly  of  me,  if  you  have  listened  to  aught 
to  my  disadvantage."  And  then  he  took  the 
otlier  tcnderl}'^  by  the  hand  as  if  he  was  an 
especial  friend,  and  gazed  in  his  face  in  such 
a  manner  as  might  one  who  would  show  in 
his  looks  his  atiectionate  regard  of  a  com- 
panion he  talked  vv'ith. 

•'  Be  assured  I  heard  nothing  I  could  place 
to  your  discredit,"  replied  the  young  poet, 
much  moved  at  the  other's  strange  way  of 
addressing  him.  "  And  what  I  did  hear,  I 
came  on  accidentally,  and  listened  to  from 
sympathy  rather  than  curiousness." 

"  Ah  !  doubtless  !"  said  the  earl,  hurriedly. 
"  But  how  came  you  in  this  place  so  early  ? 
— it  is  not  usual  to  be  travelling  at  such  an 
hour." 

William  Shakspeare  then  spoke  of  his 
last  night's  adventures  ;  to  which  the  other 
listened  with  singular  curiousness  ac- 
knowledging himself  to  be  the  Lord  Urban, 
and  that  it  was  he  who  had  removed  the 
helpless  Bertram,  finding  him  in  the  case  he 
was — asking  many  questions  about  him,  and 
at  last  inviting  his  new  acquaintace  to  see 
him  at  the  house  where  he  lay.  To  this 
the  other  gladly  assenting,  these  two  pro- 
ceeded there  together.  The  mansion  was 
the  largest  and  fairest  to  look  at  William 
Shakspeare  had  seen,  save  only  Kenilworth 
Castle,  and  it  lay  in  the  centre  of  a  noble 
park.  As  they  approached  it  they  came 
upon  several  parties  of  men — perchance 
going  to  their  labor  of  the  day — all  of  whom 
did  the  earl  a  notable  reverence,  that  he  ac- 
knowledged with  a  suitable  graciousness  ; 
soon  after  which  the  young  traveller  follow- 
ed his  noble  guide,  by  a  private  entrance, 
into  the  interior  of  that  stately  dwelling. 


12 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

I  was  wery  of  wandering,  and  went  me  to  rest, 
Under  a  brode  banke,  by  a  bourne  side, 
And  as  I  lay  and  lened,  and  loked  on  the  water, 
I  slombered  into  a  sleeping,  it  swyzed  so  mery. 
The  Vision  of  Pierce  Plowmajj. 

Clotvji.      What  hast  here  ?  ballads  ? 
Mopsa.     Fray  now  sing  some  I   I  love  a  ballad 
in  print,  o'  life, 
For  then  we  are  sure  they  are  true. 
Auto.        Will  you  buy  any  tape, 
Or  lace  for  your  cape, 
My  dainty  duck  my  dear-a? 

Shakspeare. 

Borach.  Tush !  I  may  as  well  say  the  fool's 
the  fool.  But  see'st  thou  not  what  a  deformed 
thief  this  fashion  is  ] 

Watch.  I  know  that  Deformed :  he  has  been 
a  vile  thief  this  seven  year :  he  goes  up  and  down 
like  a  gentleman.     1  remember  his  name. 

Ibid. 

When  William  Shakspeare  left  his  fel- 
low traveller,  it  was  with  unfeigned  regret  to 
part  with  one  for  whom,  as  it  seemed,  he 
had  conceived  so  great  a  liking ;  but  it  was 
also  with  a  singular  satisfaction  on  his  part 
that  the  youth  had  fallen  into  such  good 
hands.  Bertram  had  resolved  to  stay  where 
he  was,  partly  from  having  been  much  pres- 
sed to  do  so  by  the  Lord  Urban,  who  had 
used  him  exceeding  civilly ;  and  in  some 
measure,  because  he  felt  qttite  unable  to  at- 
tempt any  further  travel,  he  M^as  in  so  help- 
less weak  a  state.  Having  received,  from 
divers  of  the  earl's  serving  men,  the  neces- 
sary directions  for  pursuing  his  way,  and 
having  not  only  refreshed  himself  famously, 
but  been  liberally  provided  with  a  prodigal 
store  of  choice  eating  and  drinking  for  his 
comfort  on  the  road,  the  young  traveller  trudg- 
ed manfully  on  pursuing  of  his  journey. 

It  chanced,  after  he  had  walked  till  he 
was  getting  to  be  tired,  he  came  to  a  brook 
side  which  murmured  very  pleasantly,  and 
sitting  himself  down  on  the  grass,  under  an 
alder  tree,  he  presently  fell  to  making  a 
meal  of  the  victual  he  had ;  the  which 
pleased  him  infinitely,  for  the  meat  was  of 
the  best,  and  though  he  had  no  sauce  save 
his  own  hunger,  that  latter  gave  so  sweet  a 
relish  no  other  was  wanting ;  and  then  he 
drew  a  flask  of  wine  from  under  his  doublet, 
and  took  a  fair  draught  of  it,  which  also 
gave  him  wonderful  content.  Now,  whether 
it  was  he  had  had  but  little  sleep  many 
nights,  or  whether  it  was  the  strength  of 
the  wine  got  into  his  head,  or  the  murmur- 
ing of  the  brook  made  him  drowsy,  I  know- 
not  ;  but  after  yawning  several  times  most 


178 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


unequivocally,  and  stretching  his  arms  out, 
and  showing  other  signs  of  oppressive 
weariness,  presently  he  lay  his  strength  on 
the  grass,  with  the  bundle  under  his  head, 
and  the  stick  in  his  hand,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  as  sweet  a 
slumber  as  he  had  known  a  long  time. 

But  mayhap  it  was  the  pleasant  dream 
which  then  visited  him  that  gave  his  sleep 
such  absolute  pleasantness;  for,  truly,  it 
was  as  delectable  a  dream  as  sleep  ever  pro- 
duced— though  it  was  made  up  of  all  man- 
ner of  strange  pageants  and  unheard  of 
famous  marvels.  iSomctimes  it  took  the 
shape  of  a  goodly  theatre  tilled  with  a  noble 
company,  and  he  a  ])layer  whose  very  pre- 
sence made  the  whole  place  to  resound  with 
plaudits — anon  he  had  writ  a  play  to  be  ' 
played  before  the  Queen's  Majesty  and  the  ^ 
great  lords  and  ladies  of  her  court ;  and  he  i 
received  most  bountiful  commendation  from 
such  glorious  audience : — and  then  he  would 
be  writing  of  poems  that  should  be  so  liked 
of  all  persons  of  worship,  there  should 
scarce  be  anything  in  such  esteem.  And 
so  the  dream  went  on  in  divers  other  scenes 
of  a  like  sort,  as  if  there  could  be  no  end  to 
the  greatness  they  promised  him;  and,  in 
tlie  end,  there  danced  before  his  eyes  the 
same  pretty  company  of  fair  dancers,  sing- 
ers, and  revellers,  as  had  used  to  haunt  his 
slumbers  in  his  younger  days ;  and  one 
more  delicately  apparelled  than  the  rest,  and 
of  surpassing  beauty,  beckoned  him  onward 
as  she  flitted  gracefully  before  him,  singing 
of  some  words  of  exquisite  hopeful  meaning. 

At  this  he  woke  suddenly,  and  the  bright 
visions  changed  into  a  fair  landscape — the 
sweet  music  was  turned  to  the  faint  hum- 
ming of  the  water ;  and  the  press  of  tiny 
shapes,  in  their  rare  bravery,  changed  to 
innumerable  small  insects  that  were  skim- 
ming the  surface  of  the  brook.  The  sleeper 
started  from  his  position,  and  after  refresh- 
ing himself  by  laving  of  his  face  in  the 
water,  as  he  lay  down  on  the  bank,  he 
shouldered  his  little  burthen,  and  continued 
his  journey  in  a  gayer  humor  than  he  had 
been  in  since  its  conmiencement.  lie  now 
more  than  ever  took  to  the  laying  of  plans 
and  drawing  out  of  schemes  for  his  ad- 
vancement; and  the  iirst  and  most  notable 
of  these  was  to  make  the  best  of  his  way  to 
London,  to  iind  out  the  elder  Burbage,  who 
was  the  chief  of  a  company  of  players  there, 
and  offer  himself  to  be  of  his  company  ;  the 
which  he  doubted  not  would  be  allowed, 
Burbage  having  already  knowledge  of  his 
fitness  for  to  be  a  player,  having  witnessed 
his  first  essay  when  he  so  readily  undertook 
to  fill  the  post  of  the  sick  boy. 


On  entering  a  town  on  market  day,  and 
having  passed  long  lines  of  pens  for  sheep 
and  pigs,  and  droves  of  cattle — rude  carta 
laden  with  sacks  of  grain,  piles  of  cheese 
heaped  up  in  the  open  place,  along  side  of 
baskets  of  eggs,  poultry,  and  butter,  with 
here  a  show  perchance  of  a  wild  Indian — 
there  a  famous  doctor  on  a  platform,  offering 
to  cure  all  diseases — in  another  sjjot  the 
notablest  conjuror  and  astrologer  in  the 
whole  world,  surrounded  by  gaping  crowds 
of  farmers,  yeomen,  and  rustical  sort  of 
people — and  elsewhere  a  harper  singing  of 
old  ballads  in  a  circle  of  well  pleased  listen- 
ers of  both  sexes,  he  was  stopped  by  a  throng 
of  persons  of  all  ages  and  conditions,  who 
seemed  to  be  laughing  very  merrily  at  the 
rivalry  of  two  travelling  chapmen,  seeking 
by  dint  of  volubleness  of  tongue  and  low 
humor  to  get  off  their  wares.  The  one  was 
an  amazing  red-nosed  old  fellow,  with  one 
eye,  but  there  was  in  it  so  droll  a  twinkle, 
and  it  seemed  so  active  withal,  it  was  evi- 
dent it  grieved  not  for  the  loss  of  its  partner. 
He  had  got  with  him  a  handful  of  ballads 
and  broad  sheets,  and  a  bundle  at  his  back, 
which  he  was  striving  all  uis  craft  of  tongue 
to  dispose  of.  The  other  was  a  pedlar — a 
rare  rogue,  of  a  most  facetious  vein,  who 
whilst  in  serious  commendation  of  his  wares 
failed  not  to  utter  a  sly  jest  at  his  rival. 
He  had  his  pack  opened  before  him,  dis- 
playing all  manner  of  ribbons  and  trinkets, 
which  he  showed  as  openly  as  he  could, 
and  praised  t;s  though  nothing  half  so  good 
could  be  had  anywhere. 

"  Out  with  your  pennies,  my  masters !" 
cried  the  ballad-monger.  "  Here  is  a  choice 
time  for  spending.  Delicate  ballads  !  Rare 
ballads,  new  and  old !  Here  is  one  of  an 
amorous  turnspit  who  got  so  madly  in  love 
with  his  master's  daughter,  he  forgot  his 
proper  duty  to  that  extreme,  he  basted  him- 
self instead  of  the  meat.  It  was  sworn  be- 
fore the  mayor  he  never  came  to  his  right 
senses  till  the  cook  run  a  knife  into  him  to 
see  if  he  was  done.  No  history  so  true. 
Here  is  another  of  a  merry  apjirentice,  who 
kissed  all  the  women,  beat  all  the  watch, 
and  hanged  all  the  cats  within  live  miles  of 
him,  and  how  he  altcrwards  became  the 
powerfulest  merchant  in  the  world.  All 
writ  down  in  an  especial  edifying  manner  for 
the  instruction  of  yoinig  persons.  Here  is 
the  dialogue  of  the  Oxford  scholar,  and  the 
tanner  of  Wooilstock,  conct  rning  of  woman, 
whether  she  be  lish,  flesh,  or  fowl.  Full  of 
nu)st  delectable  fine  argument  and  deep 
learning.  Buy,  my  masters,  buy  I  XfTcr 
had  I  such  prodigal  peimy-worths.  Moat 
true  ballads — only  happened  t'otlier  day  waa 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


179 


a  month.  I  sell  no  copper  brooches  for 
gold.  Here  are  no  gliips  beads  to  pass  for 
fine  stones.  I  seek  not  to  cozen  you  with 
pewter  for  silver.  These  are  ballads,  my 
masters — none  so  good  have  been  writ  this 
hundred  year — choice  for  singing — choice 
for  reading,  and  choice  for  sticking  against 
the  cupboard  door." 

"  Here  is  Paris  thread  of  the  best,"  said 
the  pedlar.  "  Here  are  ribbons  for  holiday 
wear,  tliat  when  given  to  a  comely  damsel, 
force  her  to  be  so  desperate  after  the  giver, 
he  shall  marry  her  in  a  week.  Here  are 
garters  so  e.xquisitely  fashioned,  they  make 
a  neat  ankle  of  so  ravishing  a  shape,  not  an 
eye  shall  gaze  on  it  witliout  being  lost  in 
love  for  the  owner.  Here  are  pins  and 
needles  warranted  to  prick  none,  save  those 
they  run  into.  Here  are  leather  purses  that 
have  been  charmed  by  a  conjuror,  so  that 
they  have  the  virtue  to  double  whatever 
money  they  shall  hold.  Here  is  famous 
goldsmith's  work  in  wedding-rings  of  metal 
that  cannot  be  matched  for  sterlingness,  and 
are  moreover  known  to  keep  all  wives  true 
to  their  husbands,  and  to  hold  them  so  obe- 
dient withal,  they  shall  take  a  cudgelling  or 
a  kissing  with  a  like  good  will.  Here  are 
locks  for  hair — brooches  and  ear-rings,  gar- 
nished with  stones  beyond  all  price — neck- 
laces and  chains  from  beyond  the  seas,  and 
all  so  maiTellous  cheap  they  should  be  a 
bargain  at  thrice  what  I  will  sell  them  for. 
All  true  lovers  come  to  me,  I  will  insure 
you  your  desires  at  a  small  cost.  All  gener- 
ous good  husbands  now  is  your  time  to  win 
your  wives  to  honest  affectionateness.  I  am 
no  dealer  in  monstrous  dull  lies  that  would 
make  a  dead  man  stir  in  his  grave  the  hear 
of  such  roguery.  Here  is  no  poor  foolish 
stuff  put  into  measure  to  cheat  simple  per- 
sons into  a  laugh.  I  have  my  eyes  about 
me,  and  believe  others  not  to  be  so  blind  as 
some  that  take  but  a  half  look  at  things  do 
fancy.  Judge  for  yourselves.  Note  how 
excellent  are  my  wares.  Whatever  you 
lack  you  shall  have  of  such  fineness  and  at 
so  cheap  a  rate  as  you  can  never  have 
again.  Girdles,  belts,  points,  laces,  gloves, 
kerchiefs,  spoons,  knives,  spurs,  scissors, 
thimbles,  and  all  other  things  whatsoever, 
made  so  well  and  fast,  they  shall  last  till 
you  die,  and  after  that  serve  you  as  long  as 
you  may  have  use  for  them." 

In  this  strain  the  two  continued,  to  the 
huge  entertainment  of  the  assembled  rustics, 
who  greedily  bought  of  each,  and  laughed 
loudly  at  their  sly  allusions  to  the  other's 
efforts  to  cheat  ihem.  The  young  traveller 
passed  on  as  soon  as  he  could — somewhat 
amused  at  the  droll  roguery  of  those  merry 


knaves,  till  he  came  to  another  crowd  about 
the  town-crier,  who  had  just  made  the  whole 
neighborhood  resound  v/ith  the  clamor  of 
his  bell,  causing  persons  to  throng  around 
him  from  all  parts.  William  Shakspeare 
could  only  get  near  enough  to  hear  a  word 
or  so  that  was  bawled  louder  than  the  rest, 
so  he  asked  of  a  staid  simple-looking  man 
at  his  elbow,  what  it  meant. 

"  It  meaneth  that  the  Queen  of  Scots 
hath  escaped,"  replied  he,  "  and  hue  and 
cry  hath  been  made  for  her  from  town  to 
town,  and  from  tithing  to  tithing.  And, 
moreover,  that  London  hath  been  set  on  fire, 
and  that  the  papists  are  rising  in  all  parts, 
bidding  of  every  man  to  get  himself  in  ar- 
mor, in  readiness  to  do  battle  in  defence  of 
the  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  to  search  for  and 
serze  on  the  false  Queen  of  Scots  wherever 
she  may  be  found." 

This  intelligence  surprised  the  young  tra- 
veller exceedingly,  and  amongst  the  market 
people  it  caused  a  singular  commotion,  for 
presently  they  all  broke  up  into  little  knots 
discoursing  of  no  other  matter — some  alarm- 
ed— some  valiant — some  threatening,  and 
every  one  talking  or  seeking  to  talk  of  the 
escaped  queen,  the  fire,  and  the  papists. 
William  Shakspeare  was  proceeding  on  his 
way  as  speedily  as  he  could,  marvelling  at 
what  he  had  heard,  when  of  a  sudden  he 
found  himself  seized  firmly,  and  turning 
round  beheld  the  person  he  just  spoke  to, 
with  his  face  flushed  as  though  in  some  ex- 
traordinary excitement,  and  liis  whole  frame 
in  such  a  tremble  as  if  he  was  taken  with  a 
sudden  ague. 

"  I  charge  you  to  surrender  yourself 
peaceably,"  exclaimed  he  to  his  astonished 
prisoner. 

"  For  what  cause  I  pray  you  ?"  inquired 
the  latter. 

"  I  arrest  you  as  a  false  traitor  and  hor- 
rible malefactor  against  the  queen's  high- 
ness, our  sovereign  lady,  whose  poor  con- 
stable I  am,"  replied  the  other,  seeming  in 
terrible  fear  lest  he  should  escape.  "  Ask 
of  me  no  questions,  but  come  straight  before 
his  worship  the  mayor — at  your  deadly 
peril." 

"  I  assure  you  I  have  done  no  offence — 
there  must  be  some  mistake  in  this,"  said 
his  companion. 

"  An'  you  seek  to  breed  a  bate  by  any 
show  of  false  words,  I  will  call  on  true  men 
to  bear  you  along  forcibly,"  added  the  con- 
stable. Believing  both  resistance  and  argu- 
ments would  be  useless,  the  prisoner  allowed 
himself  to  be  led  by  the  person  who  had  de- 
tained him,  followed  by  a  throng  of  the  curi- 
ous, of  whom  many,  especially  tlie  women, 


180 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


grieved  to  see  so  handsome  a  youth  in  such 
custody.  In  a  few  minutes  he  found  him- 
self at  the  end  of  a  long  chamber,  with  a 
portly  looking  fellow,  manifestly  a  miller  by 
the  flour  with  which  his  garments  were 
covered,  that  could  be  seen  under  his  may- 
or's gown — sitting  at  the  top  of  a  table,  in 
close  and  earnest  conversation  with  a  i)utch- 
er  on  one  side  of  him,  and  a  vintner  on  the 
other,  and  then  dictating  to  a  bull-headed 
sturdy  knave  in  the  common  dress  of  a 
smitli. 

"  Silence  in  the  court !"  cried  the  miller, 
the  moment  the  constable  opened  his  mouth 
to  make  his  accusation,  and  the  mayor  spoke 
so  commandingly,  the  other  contented  him- 
self with  keeping  fast  hold  of  his  prisoner  ; 
and  seeming  in  a  wonderful  anxiousness 
and  solicitude.  It  appeared  that  these  wor- 
thies were  the  chief  olUcers  of  the  corpora- 
tion, and  they  were  about  sending  of  a  letter 
to  the  queen's  council  concerning  of  the 
important  intelligence  of  which  the  reader  is 
acquainted,  saying  what  they  have  done, 
and  asking  what  further  they  should  do. 
Everything  was  first  debated  betwixt  the 
miller,  the  butcher,  and  the  vintner,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  as  thoroughly  ignorant  of  proper 
forms  of  speech  in  which  to  express  them- 
selves, as  any  three  persons  could  ;  and  yet 
they  spoke  as  confidently  as  if  they  con- 
sidered themselves  amongst  the  sages  of  the 
land. 

"  Now,  Alderman  Hobnail,  read  what  hath 
been  writ,  and  our  memories  shall  hold  it 
the  better,"  said  the  mayor,  whereupon  the 
scribe  took  the  paper  in  his  hand,  and  slowly, 
as  if  he  could  make  out  his  own  writing 
with  some  difficulty,  he  read  what  fol- 
lows : — 

"  An'  it  please  you,  right  honovables,  we 
have  had  a  certain  hue  and  cry  arrive  here, 
charging  of  us  to  make  diligent  searchings 
in  all  manner  of  our  lanes  and  alleys,  high- 
ways and  byeways,  for  the  Queen  of  Scots, 
who  is  ficd  ;  likewise  of  her  majesty's  city 
of  Jjondon,  by  the  enemies  sot  on  fire  ; 
whereby  in  great  haste  we  have  got  ready 
our  men  and  armor,  with  such  artillery  as 
we  have,  on  pain  of  death,  as  by  the  pre- 
cept we  were  commanded  ;  and  have  charged 
divers  of  our  constables  to  seek  out  and 
apprehend  the  said  Queen  of  Scots,  if  so  bo 
she  is  lurking  in  our  township  ;  but  as  yet 
we  have  gained  no  intelligence  she  hath 
ventured  herself  into  these  parts — " 

"  Please  your  worships,  the  Queen  of 
Scots  is  here  in  my  safe  custody !"  exclaimed 
the  constable,  who  found  it  utterly  impos- 
sible to  withhold  any  longer  the  intelligence 
of  the  important  capture  he  imagined  he  had 


made.  At  hearing  this,  the  mayor  and 
alderman  started  from  tlieir  seats  in  such 
amazement  as  they  had  never  shown  before  ; 
but  their  surprise  was  far  exceeded  by  that 
of  the  prisoner,  who  at  last  could  not  help 
laughing  outright.  "  Please  your  worship 
the  fact  be  manifest.  This  person  came  up 
to  me,  whilst  the  crier  was  giving  out  the 
intelligence  of  the  Queen  of  Scots'  escape, 
and  not  hearing  what  Master  Giles  said,  he 
having  a  pestilent  hoarseness,  asked  of  me 
what  he  was  saying  ;  and  on  the  instant  I 
told  him — her  I  should  say — he — she  I  mean 
— took  himself,  or  rather  herself,  off  with 
the  design  of  escape,  as  hastily  as  might  be. 
Whereupon  I  felt  assured  he — she  I  should 
say — was  no  other  than  this  escaped  queen  ; 
for,  as  I  remember,  the  Queen  of  Scots  is 
said  to  be  fair,  so  is  this  person — and  in  no 
way  deformed,  which  tallies  with  this  person 
to  a  hair — and  of  a  well  favored  counten- 
ance, the  which  this  person  hath  also  ;  and 
in  huge  trouble  and  anxiousness  lest  he — 
she  should  escape,  I  made  him — her  I  mean, 
my  prisoner,  and  have  herewith  brought  him 
— ^her  I  should  say — into  your  worship's 
presence,  to  be  further  done  with  as  your 
worships  shall  think  fittest." 

The  whole  assembly  seemed  in  so  mon- 
strous a  marvel,  they  a])peared  as  if  they 
could  do  nothing  but  stare  at  the  supposed 
queen. 

"  Surely  this  person  looketh  but  little  like 
a  woman,"  observed  the  mayor  at  last ;  at 
which  the  vintner  very  pithily  remarked, 
there  were  divers  of  that  sex  who  k)oked 
not  what  they  passed  for ;  and  the  butcher 
added,  with  a  like  shrewdness,  it  was  well 
known  of  many  women,  that  on  an  occasion 
they  could  enact  the  man  so  much  to  tlie 
life,  their  husbands  could  not  do  it  half  so 
well.  Hearing  these  fine  arguments,  the 
miller  looked  somewhat  puzzled,  and  again 
the  constable  put  in  sundry  other  reasons  of 
his  for  coming  to  the  conclusion  he  had — 
all  which,  with  his  singular  confusion  of 
he's  and  she's  which  uiarked  his  discourse, 
appeared  to  afford  infinite  diversion  to  the 
suspected  Queen  of  Scots.  Presently,  being 
called  upon  to  give  an  account  of  himself, 
the  latter  strove  to  convince  the  worthies  of 
the  corporation  of  the  ridiculous  blunder  of 
the  constable,  by  pointing  to  his  mustache, 
saying  as  gravely  as  he  could,  he  never 
knew  that  formed  any  part  of  tlw  escaped 
queen's  countenance  ;  and  tlien  uncovered 
ills  head  to  show  how  different  his  hair  was 
to  a  woman's  ;  but  this  only  led  to  a  con- 
sultation of  the  mayor  with  his  chief  advi- 
sers, aixl  hearing  something  about  empanel- 
ling a  jury  of  matrons,  the  young  traveller 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


181 


immediately  tore  open  his  doublet,  anu  put 
beyond  a  doubt — to  tlie  horrible  disappoint- 
ment of  the  constable — that  he  was  neither 
her  highness  of  Scotland,  nor  woman  of  any 
kind.  After  which,  he  made  such  choice 
jests  of  the  a.ftair,  that  lie  set  the  whole  cor- 
poration laughing  right  heartily,  and  was 
dismissed  from  custody,  amid  the  merry 
congratulations  of  every  one  present,  save 
only  Master  Constable,  against  wliom,  his 
doings  of  that  day,  furnished  his  acquain- 
tance with  a  continual  jest. 

William  Shakspeare  got  out  of  the  town 
without  further  molestation  ;  and,  on  the 
road,  coming  up  to  a  heavily  laden  waggon, 
drawn  by  six  horses,  he  made  a  bargain  with 
the  waggoner  to  take  him  to  Oxford.  On 
getting  into  the  vehicle,  iie  nearly  placed 
himself  in  the  lap  of  an  old  lady  there  seated, 
in  consequence  of  his  not  seeing  clearly, 
the  interior  was  so  dark  ;  but  he  excused 
himself  so  gracefully,  that  he  soon  got  to  be 
on  exceeding  friendly  terms  with  her.  As 
soon  as  his  eyes  became  more  used  to  tlie 
darkness,  he  began  to  make  out  the  figures 
of  his  fellow-travellers.  First  there  was  the 
old  lady,  a  notable  motherly  sort  of  dame, 
going  to  London  to  visit  her  daughter.  She 
was  marvellous  social,  talking  of  her  affiiirs 
as  if  each  one  present  was  her  intimate  dear 
friend  and  gossip  of  long  standing,  although 
she  had  seen  none  before  she  joined  them  in 
the  waggon. 

Next  to  her  was  a  sickly  looking  boy, 
going  with  his  mother,  who  seemed  to  hold 
him  very  tenderly,  to  get  advice  of  the  nota- 
blest  chururgionsof  London  for  his  ailments. 
These  spoke  but  little,  and  only  in  a  few 
whispers  one  to  another.  Beside  these  were 
two  young  Oxford  scholars,  keeping  up  a 
continual  arguing  on  all  manner  of  subjects, 
as  if  they  could  not  live  a  minute  without 
showing  of  their  skill  in  logic,  yet  neither 
could  convert  the  other  to  his  opinion,  for 
each  debated  tlie  more  strongly,  tlie  more 
closely  he  was  combatted.  There  was  but  one 
more  of  the  party,  and  he  was  a  stout  glover 
from  Woodstock,  who  had  been  staying  with 
some  friends  in  Wales.  He  was  a  great 
devourer  of  news,  and  was  no  less  desirous 
of  playing  the  intelligencer  himself,  than  he 
was  to  listen  to  the  news  of  another.  The 
young  traveller  was  soon  seized  on  by  the 
old  dame  going  to  London,  and  the  stout 
glover  of  VVoodstock,  as  a  listener  for  one, 
and  an  intelligencer  for  the  other. 

"  By  my  troth,  I  shall  be  right  glad  to  get 
to  my  journey's  end,"  said  the  former  ;  "  as 
I  told  my  maid  Lettice  the  very  morning  I 
started  ;  and  she  said  she  had  a  monstrous 
longing  to  be  of  my  company,  so  that  she 


might  see  London  streets  paved  with  gold, 
and  to  get  but  a  glimpse  of  the  queen's 
glorious  majesty  of  whom  she  had  heard 
such  marvels  ;  but  my  husband,  who  loveth 
a  jest  dearly,  said  that  she  was  in  no  condi- 
tion to  have  her  longing  gratified,  and  must 
first  be  married  a  decent  time  ere  she  should 
speak  of  such  things.  Lideed,  my  husband 
hath  an  exceeding  merry  humor ;  but  he 
meaneth  no  harm  by  it  to  man,  woman,  or 
child,  I  promise  you.  I  was  but  a  girl  when 
he  took  me  to  wife.  I  remember  the  day  as 
well  as  though  it  were  but  yesterday ;  and 
in  honest  truth  it  will  be  just  forty  years 
come  Candlemas.  Ah  !  I  little  thought  then 
I  should  ever  be  taking  a  long  journey  to 
see  a  daughter  of  mine  own  settled  in  Barbi- 
can, whose  husband  is  so  highly  related  he 
hath  a  brother,  whose  wife  is  first  cousin  to 
my  lord  Mayor  !  Ay,  I  thought  no  more  of 
it  than  could  an  unborn  babe.  But  none 
can  foresee  what  rrreat  things  shall  come  to 

»  too 

pass. 

"  Know  you  any  news,  good  sir  ?  in- 
quired the  glover,  who  had  been  waiting  im- 
patiently to  put  that  question  for  some 
minutes.  The  young  traveller  acquainted  him 
with  what  he  had  heard  in  the  town  he 
lately  left,  not  forgetting  the  droll  blunder 
of  the  constable  in  taking  him  to  be  the  es- 
caped Queen  of  Scots,  to  which  his  com- 
panion listened  with  prodigious  interest,  as 
no  news  could,  in  his  conceit,  be  so  credible 
as  that  which  is  given  by  the  party  who  had 
been  an  actor  in  it. 

"  Ha  !"  exclaimed  the  Woodstock  man, 
"  there  have  been  continual  bruits  of  the 
Queen  of  Scots  escaping,  ever  since  she  hath 
been  a  close  prisoner.  Perchance  it  is  like 
enough  to  happen.  I  did  myself  hear  of  a 
horrible  conspiracy  she  had  entered  into  to 
let  in  the  Spaniards  and  destroy  all  the  pro- 
testants  in  the  kingdom.  Truly  she  is  a 
most  pestilent  base  woman.  Yet  know  I  for 
certain,  that  my  Lord  of  Shrewsbury's  deal- 
ings with  her  have  not  been  honest.  Indeed, 
I  could  tell  of  a  certain  christening  of  which 
I  have  had  the  minutest  particulars — secret 
though  it  was.  But  of  such  scandals  about 
her  there  is  so  famous  a  plenty,  that  if  but 
one  half  be  true,  it  maketh  the  other  half 
credible." 

"  My  husband,  as  I  remember  told  me  she 
was  a  horrible  papist,"  said  the  old  dame  ; 
'•  and  I  heard  worthy  master  curate  declare, 
after  service,  the  very  Sunday  before  I  left, 
she  must  needs  be  a  most  wicked  wretch, 
else  would  she  forswear  all  toleration  of  such 
villainy  :  and  as  fair  a  preacher  is  he  as 
you  shall  find  in  any  pulpit  ;  and  taketh  his 
dinner  with  us  some  twice  at  least  ia  the 


I82f 


TIIE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


week,  and  always  commendcth  my  skill  in 
cookerj';  and,  as  he  hath  himself  told  me, 
esteemeth  my  husband  as  the  goodliest 
Christian-man  he  hath  ever  known  ;  and 
myself  as  the  notablest  perfect  housewife  in 
the  whole  parish." 

"  Heard  you  any  fresh  matters  in  Scot- 
land ?"  asked  the  glover.  "  Are  t)ie  French 
busy  there  in  any  new  intrigues,  think  you  ?" 

"  Really,  I  know  not  ;  for  I  have  spoke 
with  none  capable  of  rightly  informing  me 
of  such  things,"  replied  the  youthful  Shaks- 
peare. 

"  Is  it  true,  the  unhappy  news  of  the ! 
murder  committed  on  the  poor  Prince  ofj 
Orange  ?"  inquired  the  other  with  huge  ear- 
nestness. "  And  is  there  any  intelligence 
to  be  relied  on  concerning  of  the  embassy  of 
Sir  Philip  Sydney  to  condole  with  the  French 
king  on  the  death  of  liis  dear  brother,  the 
Duke  of  Anjou  ?"  A  number  of  other 
questions  of  news  followed  these  in  quick 
succession,  whereby  it  appeared  that  tliis 
greedy  intelligencer,  was  seeking  to  get  note 
of  everytliing  going  forward  in  every  part 
of  the  world  ;  but  his  companion  gave  him 
such  scanty  answers,  he  was  fain  at  last  to 
give  up  all  hope  of  turning  him  to  any  more 
profit — and  the  old  dame  having  told  the 
ages  of  her  children  and  grand-children, 
with  the  fullest  particulars  of  their  several 
histories,  also  rested  her  tongue — so  that  he 
was  left  to  attend  to  the  dialogue  of  the 
Oxford  students,  who  had  hitherto  heeded 
nothing  but  their  own  arguing. 

"  Nay,  that  cannot  be,  for  Aristotle  de- 
clareth  the  very  reverse,"  said  one,  with 
prodigious  earnestness. 

"  But  what  sayeth  Socrates  on  that  head  ?" 
replied  tlie  otlier  somewhat  triumphantly. 
"  Ay,  and  Epicurus  and  others  of  the  an- 
cients. I  doubt  you  can  do  away  with  such 
evidence.  Metli;ni<s  you  must  needs  ac- 
knowledge yourself  to  be  well  beaten  in  this 
argument,  for  truly  you  are  now  at  your 
last  shifts." 

"  Nay,  be  not  in  such  conceit  of  the  mat- 
ter," rejoined  the  lirst,  in  any  manner 
rather  than  like  one  who  sutfereth  defeat. 
"  I  never  was  so  well  oil"  in  my  logic  since 
the  question  was  started.  Now  I  will  main- 
tain, even  at  the  stake,  these  my  proposi- 
tions, which  I  doubt  not  to  make  good  with 
all  proper  weapons  of  rhetoric,  and  refer- 
ences of  highest  authority.  First,  the  body 
hath  a  soul." 

"Granted,"  said  his  companion. 

"  All  souls  are,  therefore  they  exi.st." 

"  I  let  that  pass." 

"To  exist,  arguetli  to  live,  and  to  live 
requireth  the  pr(>p<;r  sustenance  of  life." 


"  That  hath  to  be  proved,"  grave.y  re- 
marked his  opponent. 

'•  Proved !"  exclaimed  the  other,  as  if  in  a 
monstrous  astonishment,  "  Is  there  anything 
that  can  live  without  victual  ?  Have  not  all 
animals,  whether  of  bird  or  beast,  tish  or  in- 
sect, a  natural  couunodity  of  moutii  and  sto- 
mach, whereby  they  are  used  to  eat  what 
pleaseth  them  ?" 

'•  There  be  sundry  sorts  of  creatures  who, 
it  ia  credibly  known,  live  without  any  man- 
ner of  victual  whatsoever,"  said  his  compa- 
nion. "I  pass  over  what  is  so  notorious  as 
the  barnacle  that  is  the  fruit  of  a  tree,  there- 
fore can  require  no  feeding,  yet  is  an  animal 
with  no  dericiency  of  stomach  or  mouth  ; 
and  the  chamelion  who  is  a  beast,  yet  usetli 
himself  to  no  victual.  I  will  say  nought  of 
the  toad,  that  may  live  a  hundred  years  shut  up 
in  the  crevice  of  a  rock.  I  will  scarce  so  much 
as  mention  the  salamander,  tlie  phcenix,  tije 
cockatrice,  and  other  familiar  animals,  which 
divers  famous  philosophers  maintain  do  sup- 
port themselves  after  a  like  fashion.  But  I 
will  at  once  to  the  stronghold  of  my  argu- 
ment, which  is,  that  ghosts  have  never  been 
known  to  eat  and  drink  even  of  the  delicatest 
things  that  came  in  their  way." 

"  iiy  our  lady  I  have  great  doubt  of  that," 
exclaimed  the  other  ;  "  hast  forgot  the  ghost 
of  the  drunken  tapster,  that  used  to  haunt 
the  very  cellar  in  which  his  corpse  was  dis- 
covered ;  and  what  should  a  ghost  want  in 
such  a  place,  think  you,  but  to  refresh  him- 
self with  a  draught  of  good  wine  of  which 
he  had  used  to  be  so  fond  ?  Dost  not  re- 
member how  the  spirit  of  a  certain  ancient 
housekeeper  was  Icnown  to  walk  the  pantry 
of  her  master's  house,  and  for  what  reason- 
able purpose  could  that  be.  save  to  feast  on 
the  store  of  delicacies  she  knew  was  there 
to  be  found  ?  But  there  is  a  fresher  and 
more  convincing  instance  tiiat  happened  at 
our  college  only  last  vacation  to  Master  Pip- 
kin, the  proctor.  Now  he  ami  a  certain  lame 
doctor  of  divinity  were  sworn  brotiiers.  Dr. 
Polyglott  was  of  an  exceeding  gravity,  and 
as  learned  a  scholar  as  Oxlbrd  could  pro- 
duce. It  was  said  that  he  was  at  his  books 
all  day  and  all  night,  and  that  he  liked  no- 
thing so  well  ;  but,  in  truth,  lie  had  a  mon- 
strous liking  for  roast  pig  with  codling  sauce, 
and  this  the  })roctor  knew.  So  he  asked  tiie 
doctor  to  come  and  sup  with  him  at  an  hour 
named,  and  he  sliould  have  most  choice 
feasting  on  this  iiis  favorite  dish  ;  and  he 
having  gladly  assented.  Master  Pipkin  got 
things  in  readiness.  At  tiie  appointed  time, 
the  learned  scholar  hopped  across  tiie  proc- 
tor's chamber  towards  tiie  table  mucii  in  tlie 
ordinary  way,  and  feasted  as  he  had  re'-'er 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


183 


feasted  before  ;  but  lie  loolccd  graver  even 
than  he  was  wont  to  hwk,  and  spoke  never  a 
word  the  wliolo  time  ho  was  engaged  in  de- 
vouring this  deUcato  food.  Nevertheless, 
this  did  not  excite  in  liis  host  any  strange 
surmises,  knowing  his  old  friend  to  be  given 
to  iits  of  such  deep  thinking,  he  woukl  not 
speak  for  hours,  no  matter  what  he  might  be 
about.  But  the  strangn  greatness  of  his  appet- 
ite did  create  a  very  singular  marvelling  in  the 
proctor,  for  the  learned  scholar  continued  to 
fill  his  trencher,  and  to  empty  it  with  such 
frequency,  that  in  the  end  the  roast  pig  wns 
picked  to  the  bones,  and  the  codling-sauce 
cat  up  to  the  last  mouthful.  As  soon  as  this 
became  manifest,  Dr.  Polyglott  hopped  out 
of  the  chamber  as  gravely  as  he  had  hopped 
into  it.  The  next  morning  little  Pipkin 
called  on  his  old  friend,  to  inquire  whether 
ho  had  slept  well  after  so  heavy  a  supper, 
when,  to  his  extreme  horror,  he  learned  that 
the  poor  doctor  had  been  dead  since  noon  the 
preceding  day.  Now  it  followetli  from  this, 
that  the  worthy  doctor  of  divinity  evinced 
his  wonderful  fine  wisdom,  in  taking  the  op- 
portunity to  banquet  on  his  favorite  dish  to 
the  last  morsel  as  he  did,  knowing  that  such 
delicacies  as  roast-pig  with  codling  sauce, 
the  most  fortunate  of  ghosts  cannot  iiope  to 
fall  in  with  but  rarely." 

The  youthful  Shakspearc  was  somewhat 
amused  at  what  he  had  heard,  and  presently 
he  joined  in  the  argument  with  as  serious 
an  earnestness  as  either,  much  to  the  marvel 
of  the  Oxford  scholars,  who  thought  it  most 
wondrous,  a  plain  countryman  as  he  appear- 
ed, should  talk  so  well  and  wisely.  It  was 
manifest  ho  soon  had  the  best  of  the  argu- 
ment. Indeed,  he  brought  forth  such  con- 
vincing reasons,  clothed  in  such  brave  lan- 
guage, that  his  opponents  quickly  got  more 
into  the  humor  of  listening  to  his  discourse 
than  of  offering  any  speech  of  their  own. — 
Grave  as  he  appeared,  he  was  but  entertain- 
ing of  himself  with  their  credulity. 

"  But  concerning  of  ghosts,  there  is  a 
thing  that  puzzleth  me  out  of  all  telling," 
said  he,  in  conclusion.  "  It  cannot  be  for  a 
moment  supposed  any  person  would  be  so 
heathenish  ignorant,  or  so  deplorable  foolish 
as  to  think  such  things  are  not  to  be  met 
with — yet  there  is  a  matter  connected  witli 
them  that  methinks  goeth  a  great  way  to- 
wards such  thinking,  an'  it  be  not  properly 
explained  by  those  having  most  knowledge 
of  the  subject.  This  I  will  here  proceed  to 
lay  open  to  you,  as  I  should  be  infinitely 
glad  to  be  instructed  by  your  opinion.  Now, 
as  far  as  the  wisest  philosophers  have  writ- 
ten, a  ghost  is  immaterial,  of  no  sort  of  sub- 
stance, being  but  the  mere  shadow,  as  it 


were,  of  the  body  from  which  it  hath  been 
separated  ;  and  that  none,  save  only  man, 
who  hath  a  soul,  can  come  into  the  state 
that  is  commonly  called  being  a  ghost." 

"  Truly  sir,  there  can  be  no  disputing  any- 
thing §0  clearly  put,"  observed  one  of  the 
scholars. 

"  Now  mark  you  this,  my  masters,"  conti- 
nued the  young  traveller,  with  a  more  pro- 
found gravity  ;  "  there  never  yet  was  an  in- 
stance of  a  ghost  who  appeared  without  pro- 
per apparelling — none  so  abominably  ill-be- 
haved as  to  show  himself  deprived  of  clothing 
of  every  kind." 

"  Nay,  so  horrible  improper  a  thing  can- 
not be  conceived  of  them,"  said  the  other. 

"  Indeed,  I  thought  as  much,"  added  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare.  "  Now  there  is  a  ghost 
of  a  person  of  worship  seen,  just  as  he  used 
to  be  when  he  lived.  How  came  he  with  a 
doublet  ?  Garments  have  no  souls  as  I  have 
ever  heard  ;  and  tlierefore  neither  hose  nor 
trunks,  nor  cloaks,  nor  hats,  nor  apparel  of 
any  kind  can  be  ghosts.  And  how  can  they 
be  worn  of  a  ghost  being  of  substance  as 
they  must  needs  be,  not  being  of  the  imma- 
terial nature  of  a  spirit  ?  If  the  latter,  as 
hath  been  credibly  affirmed,  can  slide  through 
the  crack  of  a  dcor  with  ease,  there  is  no 
clothing  of  ever  so  fine  a  fabric  but  what 
cannot  help  staying  behind  at  such  a  time  ; 
and  so  leave  the  poor  ghost  witliout  a  thread 
to  cover  him.  And  when  a  ghost  standeth 
befoi'e  any  person,  his  garments  being  hea- 
vy, and  he  so  exceeding  light,  they  must 
needs  fall  to  his  heels  for  lack  of  proper  sup- 
port, to  the  horrible  scandal  of  all  decent 
spectators." 

The  Oxford  scholars  looked  as  perfectly 
j)nzzled  as  it  w  as  possible  for  any  men  to  be ; 
and  evidently  knew  not  what  to  say  on  so 
perplexing  a  matter,  for  they  had  wit  enough 
to  see  there  could  be  but  tv\  o  conclusions  to 
such  an  argument,  which  were  a  sort  of 
Scilla  and  Charybdis  to  the  theory  of  ghosts 
— for  if  they  would  affirm  ghosts  went  with- 
out clothing — seeing  that  none  could  be  had 
of  any  niaterial  that  would  stay  on  a  sha- 
dow lor  a  single  moment — they  would  put 
themselves  against  the  best  authorities  that 
had  writ  or  spoken  on  the  subject,  all  of 
whom  vouched  for  their  being  properly  clad 
in  ordinary  tiring  ;  and  if  they  ventured  to 
maintain  garments  might  be  of  the  same 
nature  with  ghosts,  they  by  it  expressed 
their  conviction,  that  every  article  of  apparel 
was  possessed  of  a  soul,  which  they  knew 
to  be  a  proposition  so  contrary  to  common 
sense,  no  sober  person  would  allow  of  such 
a  thing  for  a  single  instant.  Doubtless,  the 
young  traveller  felt  famous  satisfaction  at 


184 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


having  brought  these  rare  logicians  to  so 
complete  a  nonplus  ;  for  truly  they  seemed 
to  have  been  struck  with  a  sudden  dumb- 
ness. At  last  one  acknowledged  that  wliat 
had  just  been  advanced,  involved  an  argu- 
ment the  which  had  never  been  started  be- 
fore, and  he  A\'as  not  then  prepared  to  give 
it  answer,  as  it  required  a  monstrous  deal  of 
profound  thinking,  it  was  of  so  abstruse  a 
nature  ;  and  the  other  followed  with  some- 
thing to  the  same  purpose ;  and  presently 
they  managed  to  turn  the  disputation  into 
another  channel. 

In  this  way  the  whole  party  proceeded  on 
their  journey  ;  the  only  variation  being  some 
of  them  would  occasionally  get  out  of  the 
waggon  and  walk  by  the  side  of  the  wag- 
goner, amongst  whom  the  youthful  Shak- 
spearc  might  be  found  more  frequently  than 
any  other,  inquiring  of  him  the  names  of  the 
places  they  passed  through,  and  of  the  fair 
mansions  of  persons  of  worsiiip  that  lay 
within  sight,  for  it  was  a  most  welcome  re- 
lief to  the  former  alter  having  been  tho- 
roughly tired  of  the  humors  of  his  compa- 
nions, to  deligiit  himself  with  observing  the 
beauties  of  the  surrounding  country,  and  the 
appearance  of  the  difierent  classes  of  per- 
sons he  met  on  the  road.  Every  face  bore 
to  him  signs  of  a  certain  character,  no  two 
of  whom  seemed  to  be  alike  ;  and  from  these 
he  could,  in  his  own  mind,  read  the  history, 
habits,  and  thoughts  of  all  he  gazed  on. — 
Mayhap,  a  great  portion  of  this  was  mere 
speculation — nevertheless,  it  served  to  be- 
guile the  time  with  a  very  fair  entertain- 
ment. 

"  And  what  place  come  we  to  next.  Mas- 
ter Giles  ?"  inquired  he  of  the  waggoner. 

"  Oxford,  an'  it  please  ye,"  replied  the 
man. 

"  Do  we  make  any  stay  there  ?"  asked 
the  other. 

"  Ees,  maister,  we  bide  a  whole  night  at 
comely  Mistress  D'Avenant's,  at  the  Crown 
Inn,"  answered  the  waggoner,  seemingly 
endeavoring  to  attend  to  his  horses  and  his 
companion  at  the  same  time.  "  John 
D'Avenant  hath  just  taken  her  to  wife. — 
Coom,  Bess !  put  the  best  leg  forrard — do 
now,  I  prithee — and  I'se  warrant  ye  she's  as 
semely  a  host  as  ever  drew  spigot.  Ma- 
ther-away !'' 

"  Doubtless,  an  hour  or  so  with  a  pretty 
woman  maketh  your  journey  to  be  all  the 
pleasanter,"  observed  the  young  traveller. 

"  Doant  it  thoa  !"  exclaimed  the  man, 
with  a  grin  that  displayed  a  pair  of  jaws  of 
extraordinary  caj)aciousness.  "  Gogs  wouns, 
rnaister  !  When  it  be  my  good  hap  to  get 
me  alongside  the  shafts  o'  so  goodly  sweet  a 


creature  as  Mistress  D'Avenant,  I  feels  my 
heart  for  to  pull  stronger  nor  tlie  best  beast 
o'  the  whole  team.  Gee-whut  .'  get  thee 
along,  I  tell  thee  ! — and  I  takes  it  as  daintily 
as  a  fore-horse  going  down  hill.  Body  o' 
me  !  when  she  bringeth  me  a  pint  o'  tickle- 
brain,  and  letteth  her  sloe-black  eyes  to  rest 
upon  me,  whilst  I  be  a  fumbling  o"  the  mo- 
ney out  o'  my  leathern  purse,  I  feels  so  diz- 
zy, and  so  strange,  and  so  full  o'  monstrous 
sweet  pleasantness  fro'  top  to  toe,  I've  no 
more  heed  o'  tlie  waggon  than  the  waggon 
has  o'  me." 

"  Methinks,  by  this,  you  must  be  in  love 
witli  the  good  dame,"  said  his  companion 
jestingly.  "  But  surely  you  will  not  think 
of  doing  mine  host  of  tlie  Crown  so  ill  a  turn, 
as  to  be  loving  of  his  wife  when  you  stop  at 
his  house  ?" 

"  Wouldn't  I,  thoa  ?"  cried  Giles,  w  th  an 
inexpressible,  sly  wink  of  his  somewhat 
roguish  eyes,  as  he  lifted  his  cap  with  his 
left  hand  and  scratched  his  head,  cou  try- 
man  fashion.  "As  far  as  I  can  guess,  I 
doant  take  a  waggoner  to  be  any  more  free 
of  temptation  than  any  other  man,  but  it  any 
manner  of  man  whatsoever  can  come  witliin 
the  glance  of  Mistress  D'Avenant's  sloe- 
black  peepers,  and  not  think  within  himself 
how  blessed  would  be  his  condition  were  he 
John  D'Avenant,  and  John  D'Avenant  he — 
he  must  needs  be  such  a  mortal  as  be  clean 
different  from  the  ordinarj^  sons  of  Adam.'' 

This,  and  other  conversation  to  the 
same  purpose,  excited  some  faint  curiosity 
in  the  young  traveller  to  behold  her  whose 
charms  had  made  so  forcible  an  impression 
on  the  susceptible  heart  of  Master  Giles  ; 
and  tliis  curiousness  of  his  in  due  time  was 
indulged.  At  their  entrance  into  Oxford, 
which  was  at  dusk  of  the  evening,  the  two 
scholars  left  the  waggon,  and  it  proceeded 
leisurely  along  till  it  stopped  in  the  yard 
of  the  Crown  Inn.  It  was  too  dark  to  dis- 
tinguish objects  very  clearly,  but  as  far  as 
could  be  judged  of  it,  the  inn  was  a  capaci- 
ous building  well  accommodated  for  its  pur- 
poses. Lights  were  streaming  from  many 
casements,  and  the  burthen  of  a  popular 
ballad  came  in  full  chorus  from  one  of  tiiem. 
A  door  being  open,  hgures  could  be  seen 
moving  about  in  the  red  glare  of  the  kitchen- 
lire  ;  and  on  a  cry  being  raised  of  "tlie  wag- 
gon !  the  waggon  !  Here  be  Master  Giles 
come,  mistress  !"  two  or  three  persons  came 
rushing  out. 

"  John  !  prithee  make  all  speed  to  help 
the  travellers  out !"  cried  a  female,  who  was 
approaching  with  a  lighted  candle,  which 
she  shaded  with  her  hand. 

"  Ay,  sweetlieart !  I'll  be  witli  thee  on  tlie 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


186 


instant,"  replied  a  young  man  coming  after 
her,  and  then  calling  into  the  house,  ex- 
claimed— "  Come  Ralph  !  Come  Robin  ! 
Wilt  be  all  night  a  bringing  of  those  steps  ?" 

"  Welcome  to  Oxford,  good  friends !" 
cried  the  first  speaker,  very  pleasantly,  as 
she  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  waggon. 

"  Ha  !  Master  Giles,  how  dost  do  ?"  said 
the  other  cordially  greeting  the  driver  as  an 
old  acquaintance. 

"  Bravely,  Master  D'Avenant,  bravely  !" 
replied  he.  "  And  your  fair  mistress.  Body 
o'  me,  an'  she  doant  look  more  bloomingly 
than  ever !" 

"  Marry,  Master  Waggoner  !  when  am  I 
to  come  to  my  full  bloom,  think  you  ?"  said 
the  first  speaker  with  a  pretty  laugh,  as  she 
left  him  to  pay  attention  to  her  new  guests. 
William  Shakspeare  was  assisting  his  fellow 
travellers  to  aligiit,  but  he  could  not  help 
turning  round  to  take  note  of  this  Mistress 
D'Avenant ;  and  in  honest  truth  he  saw  be- 
fore him  as  delicious  a  face  as  any  man  need 
desire  to  see,  with  lustrous  dark  eyes,  rich 
complexion,  and  a  most  bewitching  moutii 
glowing  as  it  were,  under  the  light  thrown 
upon  them  by  the  candle,  and  ornamented 
with  a  becoming  head-tire. 

"  Take  him  down  gently,  I  pray  you,  good 
sir,  for  he  is  exceeding  weak,"  said  the  ten- 
der mother,  as  the  young  traveller  was  help- 
ing her  sick  son  out  of  the  waggon. 

"  Truly,  he  shall  be  as  tenderly  handled 
as  if  his  own  kind  mother  were  a  helping 
him,"  replied  he  ;  this  gentle  speech  of  his 
brought  on  him  the  notice  of  the  pretty 
hostess,  who  looked  with  a  pleased  surprise 
at  beholding  of  so  handsome  manly  a  youth. 
In  due  time  all  had  alighted.  The  Wood- 
stock man  had  already  departed.  The 
mother  and  child,  with  the  old  dame,  led  the 
way — the  latter  as  usual,  making  herself 
wondrous  gracious  with  the  host ;  and  the 
youthful  Shakspeare  walking  last,  by  the 
side  of  his  comely  hostess,  with  whom  he 
appeared  already  to  be  affording  some  pleas- 
ing entertainment,  for  she  manifestly  took 
his  converse  with  infinite  satisfaction.  The 
waggoner  stood  behind,  gazing  after  the 
last  two  as  he  scratched  his  head,  with  a 
look  as  though  he  had  much  rather  Mistress 
D'Avenant  had  stayed  where  she  was,  or 
that  her  companion  had  come  to  any  inn  at 
Oxford  save  the  Crown. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

The  trustiest,  lovingest  and  gentlest  boy 
That  ever  master  kept. 

Beaumont  aj^td  Fletcher. 
The  love  of  boys  unto  their  lords  is  strange  ; 
I  have  read  of  wonders  of  it.  Yet  this  boy. 
For  my  sake  (if  a  man  may  judge  by  looks 
And  speech)  would  outdo  story.  I  may  see 
A  day  to  pay  him  for  his  loyalty. 

Ibid. 
Ah  !  dere  God !  what  mai  this  be 

That  alle  thing  weres  and  wasteth  awai ; 
Frendschip  is  but  a  vantye 
Uimethe  hit  dures  all  a  day. 

Vernd.^  M  S. 

Alas! 
There  are  no  more  such  masters  ;  I  may  wander 
From  east  to  Occident,  cry  out  for  service, 
Try  many,  all  good,  serve  truly,  never 
Find  such  another  master. 

Shakspeare. 

"  What  dost  think  of  my  lord's  new 
page  ?"  inquired  the  grave  old  butler  of  the 
equally  grave  old  housekeeper  of  the  Lord 
Urban,  as  they  sat  together  in  a  small 
chamber  adjoining  the  buttery  of  the  earl's 
mansion,  taldng  of  their  morning  repast. 

"  Truly  a  most  well  favored  youth  and  a 
gentle,"  replied  the  old  dame.  "  I  be  hugely 
mistaken  in  him,  good  Adam,  an'  he  be  not 
of  a  most  kindly  disposition.  Never  saw  I 
youth  so  courteous,  and  yet  so  humble 
withal.  He  is  ever  ready  to  do  all  manner 
of  friendly  offices  to  whoever  he  cometh 
anigh ;  and  yet  of  such  humility  as  he  seemeth, 
there  is  a  look  and  behavior  with  him  that 
is  manifestly  much  above  the  service  he 
hath  put  himself  upon." 

"  Ay,  Joyce,  that  hath  struck  me  more 
than  once,"  observed  Adam.  "  But  there  is 
another  thing  which  I  have  observed  in  this 
Bertram,  in  which  he  diflfers  greatly  from 
youths  of  his  own  age,  as  far  as  I  have  seen 
— and  this  is,  his  constant  refraining  from 
all  kinds  of  pastime.  Despite  of  his  appa- 
rent cheerfulness  I  cannot  help  thinking  he 
hath  some  secret  sorrow  which  ho  alloweth 
to  prey  on  his  gentle  nature.  I  have  not 
lived  these  years  without  acquiring  some 
cunning  in  observing  of  faces  ;  and  I  do  de- 
tect in  his  such  signs  as  assure  me  he  is  in 
no  way  happy." 

"  Perchance  that  shall  make  him  the  bet- 
ter company  for  my  lord,"  said  Joyce.  "  In- 
deed, they  are  so  like  in  their  humors, 
methinks  they  cannot  help  taking  to  each 
other  with  a  mutual  good  will.  It  is  evi- 
dent the  page  loveth  his  lord,  he  speaketh  of 
him  so  fondly,  and  attendeth  on  liim  with  so 


186 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


affectionate  a  reverence  ;  and  as  it  appear- 
eth  to  me,  the  earl  is  wonderfully  partial  to 
his  young  attendant,  for  he  is  never  easy 
save  when  he  is  present." 

"  Truly  I  think  so,"  added  the  old  butler. 

"  I  marvel  he  hath  not  come,"  observed 
the  housekeeper. 

"  He  tasteth  nothing  himself  till  his  mas- 
ter hath  sufficed  himself,"  replied  Adam ; 
"  and  "tis  as  pretty  a  sight  as  can  well  be 
seen,  to  note  how,  with  what  store  of  sweet 
persuasions,  the  page  getteth  his  lord  to  par- 
take of  the  dainties  he  setteth  before  him, 
till  he  hath  made  a  fair  meal.  But  here 
Cometh  his  light  footstep  along  the  passage." 

The  next  minute  the  youth  who  had  been 
William  Shakspeare's  fellow  traveller  en- 
tered the  chamber,  clad  like  a  page  in  the 
livery  of  the  Lord  Urban,  with  a  sword  and 
dagger,  much  improved  in  his  looks,  though 
still  of  a  more  delicate  appearance  than  is 
common  with  one  of  his  age.  Courteously 
he  saluted  the  two  ancient  domestics,  in  a 
manner  as  gentle  as  if  they  were  his  good 
parents  rather  than  his  fellow  servants,  and 
took  his  place  beside  them,  accepting  vvliat 
they  helped  him  to  with  abundance  of  thank- 
fulness, and  only  regretting  he  should  put 
them  to  such  trouble.  And  this  behavior 
of  his  so  took  the  hearts  of  old  Adam  and 
his  companion,  that  they  appeared  as  if  they 
could  not  do  half  enough  to  show  how  won- 
drously  it  pleased  them. 

"  And  how  fareth  our  noble  master,  sweet 
sir  ?"  inquired  the  housekeeper. 

"  He  mends  apace,  good  dame,"  replied 
the  youth.  "  Indeed,  I  am  now  in  hopes  he 
may  be  got  out  altogether  of  his  unhappy 
frenzies  and  terrible  sad  tits  of  melancholy. 
Alack  !  'tis  a  most  grievous  thing  so  noble 
a  gentleman  should  be  in  so  sad  a  case  as 
he  is!" 

"  Ah  !  that  is  it,"  exclaimed  Adam  sor- 
rowfully. "  But  dost  know  what  great;  cause 
he  hath  had  for  such  deep  sadness  ?" 

"  Nay,  not  a  word  of  it,"  answered  Ber- 
tram ;  "  nor  am  I  in  any  way  desirous  to 
learn,  unless  my  lord  tliink  it  tit  I  should.  I 
only  know  he  is  a  most  unhappy  gentleman, 
and  methinks  that  should  be  enough  know- 
ledge for  me  to  strain  my  exertions  to  the 
utmost,  to  lead  him  into  more  pleasin"-  feel- 
mgs." 

"I  do  famously  approve  of  such  discre- 
tion," said  the  old  dame  ;  and  then,  as  was 
customary  of  her,  recommenced  pressing 
him  to  make  a  bettor  meal.  "  Truly,  never 
met  I  any  person  with  such  strange  lack  of 
appetite,"  she  added,  on  finding  her  endea- 
vors of  no  avail.  "  O'  my  word,  you  must 
not  hope  to  attain  any  stoutness  of  flesh,  go 


I  you  on  with  so  poor  a  stomach.  But  may- 
hap there  are  other  things  you  might  more 
relish.     There  is  a  fair  portion  of  a  roast  kid 

.  now,  cooked  but  yesterday,  that  would  make 
most  delicate  eating  for  your  breakfast,  that 

'  I  will  get  for  you,  please  you  to  say  you 

j  could  fancy  it — or  I  will  have  for  you  a  ten- 
der pullet  broiled  on  the  instant,  an'  you  tell 
me  you  have  a  mind  for  so  nice  a  dainty." 
"  indeed  I  thank  you  very  heartily,  I  am 
well  content  with  the  excellent  bountiful 
meal  I  have  made,"  replied  the  page.  There- 
upon the  old  butler  entreated  him  to  make  a 
more  prodigal  use  of  the  ale  on  the  table,  or 
allow  of  his  fetching  him  a  cup  of  choice 
malmsey  or  canary  :  but  the  youth  cour- 
teously thanked  him,  yet  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  taste  a  drop  more  beyond  what  he 
had  drank.  Immediately  after  this,  one  of 
the  grooms  of  the  chamber  came  to  tell  Ber- 
tram his  lord  wanted  him  ;  upon  which  he 
made  what  haste  he  could  towards  th^tt  part 
of  the  building  where  the  earl  had  chose  to 
lodge  himself.  Whilst  the  youth  is  making 
his  way  through  the  long  passages  and 
broad  staircases  of  this  goodly  mansion,  the 
reader  shall  at  once  be  transported  to  the 
Lord  Urban's  chamber. 

It  was  a  gloomy  apartment  of  some  di- 
mensions, lighted  only  by  a  window  of  stain- 
ed glass.  On  one  side  of  it  was  a  large 
book-case,  well  stored  with  volumes  of  dif- 
ferent sizes — the  chimney-piece  was  carved 
all  round  with  armorial  ijearings,  in  almost 
numberless  different  compartments  —  the 
chairs  and  couches  were  covered  with  the 
same  dark  tapestry  as  the  panels,  and  the 
table  in  the  centre  bore  a  coverlet  of  some 
black  stuff,  ornamented  with  a  deep  border 
of  the  same  color.  At  the  end  of  the  cham- 
ber opposite  the  book-case,  on  each  side  of 
the  window,  were  two  large  portraits,  in 
carved  oak  frames, — one  a  handsome  young 
knight,  in  full  armor,  doubtless  meant  for 
the  earl  in  his  younger  days  :  and  the  other 
was  completely  hid  under  a  black  cloth. 
There  were  two  doors  to  this  chamber,  one  of 
which  was  the  entrance,  and  the  other  led 
into  an  ante-chamber  wlicre  the  page  slept, 
and  to  the  carl's  bed-chamber  which  was 
beyond  it.  There  was  no  sign  of  jiving 
thing  near,  save  a  tine  grey-hound  tiiat  was 
listlessly  stretching  himself  by  sliding  his 
fore  paws  close  together  along  the  glossy 
flooring  till  tiiey  were  thrust  out  their  full 
length,  and  then  he  would  make  a  faint  sort 
of  winning  as  he  looked  about  and  found 
liimself  alone. 

Presently  a  noise  like  the  turning  of  a 
key  was  heard,  which  made  the  dog  some- 
what more  attentive,  but  instead  of  looking 


TIIE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


187 


towards  either  of  the  doors,  his  eyes  were 
fixed  in  a  different  direction,  and  the  next 
moment  a  concealed  door  was  seen  to  open, 
and  thereat  with  exceeding  cautiousness, 
the  Lord  Urban  made  his  appearance,  clad 
in  a  suit  of  black  velvet,  and  looking  as  if 
moved  with  so  monstrous  a  sadness  no  heart 
could  live  under  it.  After  closing  the  door 
as  cautiously  as  he  had  opened  it,  the  earl 
flung  himself  into  a  couch,  and  with  an  as- 
pect of  a  most  woful  sort,  he  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  black  curtain  that  covered  the  pic- 
ture. All  this  while  it  was  evident  his 
mind  was  in  great  trouble.  His  lips  would 
move  and  curl  into  strange  expressions,  far 
from  pleasing  ;  his  eyes  seemed  to  strain  as 
if  after  some  object  that  was  fading  from 
their  sight,  and  then  he  would  start  back. 
His  breast  heaved,  and  his  face  grew  cloud- 
ed. He  would  frown  till  the  wrinkles  on 
his  foreliead  appeared  to  be  so  pressed  and 
squeezed  together  they  must  needs  crack — 
and  draw  in  his  lips  so  long  and  strongly,  his 
mouth  disappeared  under  the  beard  of  the 
lower  part  of  it.  T!ie  greyhound  looked  as 
though  he  had  again  composed  himself  to 
sleep ;  yet  would  he  open  his  eyes  and  fix 
them  on  his  master  with  a  curious  interest, 
at  every  start  or  sudden  exclamation  the  earl 
made. 

"  'Twas  a  rightful  deed !"  muttered  the 
Lord  Urban,  in  deep  thick  tones  that  spoke 
a  far  profounder  meaning  than  the  mere 
wards  conveyed.  '•  'Twas  a  just  vengeance  ! 
The  greatly  guilty  should  be  greatly  pun- 
ished !"  Presently  a  strong  shuddering 
passed  over  him,  and  his  aspect  changed 
from  a  severe  sternness  to  a  painful  melan- 
choly. "  'Twas  a  most  infamous  deed  !" 
exclaimed  the  earl,  in  broken  accents  that^ 
were  scarce  audible;  "  a  deed  by  which  I 
have  forfeited  all  reputation  here,  and  hope 
hereafter.  An  unknightly  deed — a  coward- 
ly deed — a  most  horrible  base  murder  ! 
Ha  !"  screamed  the  unhappy  man,  when,  on 
raising  his  eyes,  he  met  those  of  his  page, 
upon  whom  he  hastily  rushed,  and  seized  by 
the  throat  as  though  he  were  about  to  stran- 
gle him.  "  Dost  come  prying  and  listening, 
fellow  !  Nay — nay — "  he  added,  as  sudden- 
ly letting  go  the  youth  as  he  had  laid  hold  of 
him.  "  I  mean  thee  no  hurt,  boy  ! — O'  my 
life,  I  will  not  harm  thee.  But  why  didst 
enter  without  knocking  ?" 

"  I  knocked  many  times,  my  lord,  but  you 
answered  me  not,"  replied  Bertram,  with 
more  sympathy  in  his  looks  than  fear.  "  And 
you  having  sent  for  me  pressingly,  I  made 
bold  to  enter  without  further  delaying." 

'•  Right,  boy,  right !"  said  his  lord  hurried- 
ly.    "  I  did  send  for  thee  I  remember  me 


well,  and  doubtless  I  was  too  deeply  engaged 
in  mine  own  thoughts  to  take  any  heed  of 
thy  knocking.  But  didst  hear  me  say  any 
thing  discreditable  ? — Ought  to  my  disadvan- 
tage ?     Spoke  I  at  all  of ?"     The  earl 

seemed  as  though  the  word  choked  him,  for 
he  could  not  speak  it,  and  wrung  the  hand  of 
his  young  attendant,  which  he  had  affection- 
ately seized  when  his  humor  changed  from 
its  sudden  furiousness,  and  turned  away. 

"  Alas,  my  lord,  such  I  have  heard  too 
often  to  pay  them  any  manner  of  heed,"  an- 
swered Bertram  sorrowfully.  "  They  are 
but  the  natural  offspring  of  your  phrenzy — 
that  none,  who  know  you,  and  love  you, 
would  take,  save  as  evidence  of  your  exceed- 
ing unhappiness." 

"  And  dost  not  believe  I  have  committed 
such  wrongful  act  as  I  have  declared  ?"  in- 
quired the  Lord  Urban,  again  taking  his 
page  kindly  by  the  hand,  and  looking  into 
his  face  with  a  countenance  of  sadness 
mingled  with  affection. 

"  How  could  I  credit  so  intolerable  a 
thing  ?"  exclaimed  the  youth.  "  Methinks 
the  generous  treatment  I  have  received  at 
your  hands  would  suffice  to  plant  your  no- 
bleness firmly  in  my  opinion,  but  what  I 
have  seen  of  your  other  actions  is  of  the 
like  honorable  character;  and  surely  these 
common  acts  are  the  properest  evidence  to 
judge  you  by — against  which  the  idle  say- 
ings of  your  distempered  fancy  can  weigh 
only  as  a  feather  in  the  balance." 

"  True,  boy,  true,"  cried  the  earl,  a  faint 
smile  making  itself  visible  on  his  noble  fea- 
tures, as  he  more  tenderly  pressed  the  hand 
he  held  in  his  own.  "  Such  things  must 
need  be  of  my  mind's  disorder.  I  cannot  be 
so  horrible  base  a  wretch  as  I  do  sometimes 
think  myself.  I  do  assure  thee  I  have  been 
in  wonderful  reputation  of  the  noblest  per- 
sons, for  ail  truly  famous  and  noble  qualities. 
Indeed,  I  have  been  from  my  youth  ready  to 
cast  aside  every  one  thing  most  valued, 
rather  than  the  slightest  blemish  should  rest 
upon  my  honor.  Surely  then  it  cannot  be 
I  should  in  a  moment  thrust  away  from  me 
the  fame  I  had  labored  so  long  and  well  to 
acquire,  and  do  so  cruel  a  deed  all  men  that 
knew  it  would  cry  shame." 

"  It  is  too  improbable  to  be  considered  a 
moment,  my  lord,"  replied  his  young  com- 
panion. 

"  And  yet  thou  knov/est  not  the  provo- 
cation that  may  lead  to  such  things,"  added 
his  lord,  with  a  more  touching  earnestness. 
"  It  seemeth  to  me  the  very  honorablest  sort 
of  man  mav  be  maddened  by  wrong  into  the 
showing  of  such  notorious  ill  behavior. 
Thou  art  too  young  to  judge  of  this.     Thou 


188 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


■canst  not  yet  enter  into  the  feelings  of  a 
man  who  having-  attuined  the  hiolicst  emi- 
nence of  nobleness,  in  extreme  conticlence 
he  shall  so  live  and  die,  on  a  sudden  lindetli 
himself  reduced  to  the  lowest  base  abject- 
ness,  by  one  who  was  the  last  of  all  in  his 
expectation  to  do  him  any  evil." 

"  Truly,  I  never  heard  of  so  hapless  a 
case,"  observed  the  page. 

"  Doubtless  'tis  somewhat  rare,"  said  the 
earl.  "  But,  prithee,  get  me  a  book  and 
read.  I  would  be  amused  out  of  this  hu- 
mor. Fetch  the  same  goodly  romance  thou 
wert  engaged  upon  yesterday."  The  page 
cheerfully  did  as  he  was  required,  believing, 
by  so  doing,  he  should  beguile  the  earl  of 
his  unhappiness  ;  and  presently  sitting  him- 
self in  a  chair  with  a  huge  volume  in  his 
lap,  commenced  reading  of  the  marvellous 
adventures  of  certain  famous  knights.  He 
soon  got  to  be  too  much  interested  in  the 
narrative  to  attend  to  liis  hearer,  whom  he 
fully  believed  to  be  as  completely  taken  with 
the  book  as  liimself, — but  such  was  far  from 
being  the  case,  for  though  the  earl  at  first 
appeared  attending  to  what  was  being  read 
to  him,  in  a  lew  minutes  it  was  evident  from 
the  changed  expression  of  his  countenance, 
his  mind  was  engrossed  by  a  very  different 
matter.  A  hollow  groan  at  last  forced  the 
page  to  desist  awhile  from  his  reading. 

The  noble  features  of  the  earl  now  ap- 
peared black  and  distorted,  as  though  under 
the  influence  of  a  great  agony — his  eyes 
with  a  sad  fixedness  staring  at  vacancy, 
and  his  hands  clenching  fast  the  arms  of  the 
chair  on  which  ho  sat — his  head  leaning 
forward,  one  leg  under  the  seat  and  the 
other  projecting  stiffly  before  him — in  brief, 
the  whole  attitude  as  strained  as  a  mere  ef- 
figy of  stone. 

"  Murder  !"  muttered  he  in  the  most  thril- 
ling tones  Bertram  had  ever  heard.  "  Oh, 
infamous  !  Oh,  most  base  deed  !  Oh,  in- 
tolerable foul  blot  upon  mine  honor  !  Nought 
can  erase  the  stain.  Reputation  !  thou  art 
lost  to  me  forever !  Bat  who  slandereth 
me  ?  Who  dare  say  ought  to  my  discredit  ?" 
inquired  he  in  a  louder  voice,  and  with  a 
fierce  frowning  look.  "  Am  I  not  Urban  de 
la  Pole  ?  Urban  the  reproachless  ?  'Twas 
a  just  deed  !  Who  dares  proclaim  it  to  be 
a  murder  ?" 

"  JVIy  lord !  my  lord  !  I  pray  you  out  of 
this  phrenzy  !"  exclaimed  the  page  urgent- 
ly, as  he  pushed  his  lord  slightly  on  the 
shoulder  to  arouse  him  irom  his  strange 
fancies.  At  this  the  latter  started  of  a  s\i(l- 
den,  and  grasped  his  young  companion's 
arm  with  both  his  hands,  staring  u])on  him 
with  a  somewhat  bewildered  jraze. 


"  Ha !  what  dost  say,  boy  ?"  hastily  in- 
quired he,  just  above  his  breath,  as  it  were. 

"  I  l)eseech  you,  my  lord,  not  to  allow  of 
these  violent  terrible  "fits  to  get  so  much  the 
better  of  you,"  replied  Bertram,  in  a  most 
earnest  voice,  and  with  a  look  of  deepest 
sympathy.  "  Believe  me,  there  is  no  one 
person  anywhere  nigh  unto  you,  would 
breathe  one  word  but  to  your  Avell-deserved 
praise.  It  grieveth  me  to  the  heart  to  see 
so  noble  a  gentleman  so  moved.  I  marvel 
such  gloomy  shadows,  the  mere  cheats  of  a 
disordered  mind,  should  have  such  power 
over  your  excellent  sweet  nature." 

"  I  do  believe  thou  lovest  me,  boy,"  said 
the  earl,  taking  the  other's  hand  in  his 
wonted  kind  manner. 

"  Ay,  that  do  I,  right  heartily,  my  lord  !" 
exclaimed  the  youth,  with  a  most  convincing 
sincerity.  "  I  love  you  for  your  truly  noble 
character — such  as  I  have  heard  from  divers 
of  your  honest  faithful  servants — for  tlie 
greatness  of  your  heart  and  honorableness 
of  your  conduct — as  shown  in  a  long  career 
of  truly  glorious  deeds — for  your  bountiful 
generousness  of  disposition  to  every  dis- 
tressed poor  person  of  whose  wants  you  can 
gain  intelligence  ; — and  I  love  you  tor  your 
noble  behavior  to  myself — the  very  creature 
of  your  prodigal  kindness — whom  you  have 
saved  from  the  horribiest  evils  humanity 
can  endure.  You  found  me  with  nought 
el.se  to  recommend  me  to  your  notice  but  the 
desperateness  of  my  state.  You  took 
charge  of  me,  attended  me  as  a  dear  friend 
rather  than  a  master  ;  gave  back  to  me  the 
health  which  long  suffering  had  deprived  me 
of ;  and  the  home  that  villainy  had  forced 
me  from  ;  and  yet,  with  the  full  confidence 
.of  a  perfect  honorable  nature,  up  to  this 
hour  you  have  afforded  me  all  the  succor  I 
needed,  without  asking  me  one  word  of  the 
cause  that  brought  me  into  such  necessity. 
I  might  not  be  the  thing  I  seemed — per- 
chance, one  quite  unworthy  of  your  smallest 
esteem  ;  but  out  of  your  own  abundant  good- 
ness, you  found  me  such  qualities  as  I  most 
needed,  and  took  me  into  your  service,  with- 
out trial,  question,  or  doubt.  Truly,  my 
lord,  methinks  you  have  given  me  great  cause 
to  love  you.' 

"  I  bless  the  hour  I  met  thee  in  the  wood," 
said  the  Lord  de  la  Pole,  with  affectionate 
earnestness.  "  I  have  received  more  com- 
fort of  thy  untiring  heed  of  me  than  have  I 
known,  I  scarce  can  say  the  day  when,  it 
seemeth  so  long  since.  I  will  prove  anon 
how  much   I   do    esteem   thy    loving  ser- 

5)  JO 

Vice. 

"I  care  to  have  but  one  proof,  an'  it 
please  you,  my  lord,"  said  Bertram,  "  and 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


189 


that  is  what  I  have  been  laboring  for  to  gain 
all  this  time." 

"  Ay,  indeed  ?  Prithee  say  what  it  is  ?' 
asked  the  earl. 

"  It  is  but  to  have  yon  return  to  the  gal- 
lant activity  and  proper  cheerfulness  shown 
by  you  in  times  past,"  replied  his  young 
companion.  At  hearing  this  the  Lord  Ur- 
ban shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  Ah,  boy,  that  can  never  be  !"  said  lie, 
with  a  deep  sad  emphasis  that  went  direct  to 
the  hearer's  heart. 

"  Try,  my  lord,  I  beseech  you,"  added  the 
other  imploringly.  "  Hie  you  to  court,  and 
doubt  not  the  e.xample  of  your  nobleness 
would  be  of  especial  advantage  to  every  gal- 
lant spirit  that  shall  there  be  found.  Take 
vour  proper  place  among  the  powerfullest 
lords  of  the  realm,  and  be  ever  ready  to  af- 
ford them  that  counsel  which  your  expe- 
rience teacheth  you — or  be  as  you  have  so 
often  been  before,  the  valiant  leader  of  the 
chivalry  of  England,  bearing  your  resistless 
banner  into  the  very  heart  of  "the  battle." 

"  Ay,  talk  of  these  things,  boy — talk  of 
tliem  as  long  as  thou  wilt !"  exclaimed  the 
earl,  as  a  gleam  of  proud  triumph  seemed 
sliining  in  his  eyes.  "  I  was  not  always  as 
I  am.  °  There  hath  been  many  a  hard  fought 
field  wherein  my  spear  and  curtle-axe  have 
done  notable  service.  Those  were  glorious 
days, — those  were  gallant  scenes.  The 
neighing  of  the  war  steed,  as  he  nisheth  to 
the  conflict  at  the  piercing  cry  of  the  trump- 
et, soundeth  in  my  ears  even  now, — and  the 
waving  penons  and  the  glittering  Innccs, 
and  the  resistless  rush  of  knights  and  men- 
at-arms,  again  return  to  mine  eyes.  I  feel 
stirred  in  every  vein.  Methinks  I  could  seek 
the  enemy  with  all  the  valor  of  my  early 
manhood,  and  raise  the  same  resounding 
war  cry  that  hath  made  the  fiercest  of  the 
battle  to  rage  around  me  wherever  I  passed." 

"  Ay,  that  could  you,  my  lord,  I  would 
wager  my  life  on  it !"  cried  the  page,  de- 
lighted beyond  measure  to  notice  such  a  hu- 
mor in  the  earl.  "  England  hath  still  ene- 
mies to  subdue — and  there  yet  remain  for 
her  gallant  defenders  many  hard  fought 
fields  to  be  won.  Would  you  remain  in 
inglorious  ease  when  the  foes  of  your 
country  are  striving  for  her  overthrow,  and 
give  yourself  up  to  a  vain  grief  when  the 
dangers  that  threaten  the  land  require  you  to 
hasten  to  the  rescue  ?  I  beseech  you  free 
yourself  from  the  trammels  of  your  sorrow 
— don  your  favorite  armor — bestride  your 
choicest  steed — call  to  your  standard  the  old 
companions  of  your  valor,  and  speed  wher- 
ever glory  is  to  be  gained  or  wrong  re- 
dressed ;  and  be  assured  that  not  only  shall 


the  greatness  of  your  fame  exceed  your 
former  reputation,  wherever  your  name  can 
be  heard,  but  that  you  shall  enjoy  such  con- 
tent, such  marvellous  comfort,  and  such 
wonderful  sweet  happiness,  as  have  never 
visited  you  all  your  life  before." 

"  Ah  boy,  thou  knowest  nothing  of  what 
I  have  endured,"  answered  the  Lord  Urban, 
and  to  his  companion's  exceeding  disconten- 
tation,  manifestly  in  as  complete  a  sadness 
as  ever.  "Thou  speakest  in  entire  ignor- 
ance, else  wouldst  thou  have  refrained  from 
so  perfect  a  mockery  as  speaking  to  me  of 
happiness.  Be  sure,  that  were  I  not  held 
to  this  spot  by  a  chain,  from  vdiich  nought 
but  the  grave  can  release  me,  long  ere  this, 
I  would  have  sought  in  the  thickest  of  the 
enemy  a  death,  by  which  my  name  might 
obtain  that  honor  which  hath  been  denied  to 
my  life.  Comfort !"  exclaimed  he,  in  tones 
scarce  articulate,  as  he  let  go  the  hand  he 
had  held  so  long.  "  Prithee,  speak  not  to 
me  such  a  word  again  ;"  and  so  saying,  he 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  slowly  traced  his 
way  out  of  the  chamber. 

Bertram  gazed  after  him,  with  eyes  full 
of  the  tenderest  solicitude,  and  remained  for 
some  moments  after  his  lord  had  disappeared, 
in  a  deep  reverie  of  thought. 

It  may  be  taken  as  an  invariable  truth, 
that  a  truly  honorable  mind  is  ever  a  confi- 
ding one,  and  taketh  every  fair  appearance 
to  be  what  it  resembles.  Doubt  and  suspicion 
belong  only  to  the  meaner  sort.  Those 
whoso  intentions  are  thoroughly  honest  put 
the  fullest  confidence  in  the  dealings  of  their 
associates  ;  and  when  once  opinion  getteth 
to  be  fixed  in  them  of  another's  worthiness, 
a  prejudicial  thought  finds  such  difficulty  of 
entrance  in  their  unsuspecting  minds,  that  it 
requireth  some  extraordinary  evidence  before 
it  will  be  entertained.  Thus  was  it  with 
this  youth.  Of  his  lord's  nobility  of  charac- 
ter he  had  formed  so  strong  a  conviction, 
from  what  he  had  heard  and  seen  of  him, 
that  such  a  thing  as  suspecting  him  of 
a  dishonorable  action,  was  utterly  beyond 
the  bounds  of  possibility  ;  therefore,  all  the 
Earl's  self  accusations  and  dark  allusions 
the  other  could  only  treat  in  the  manner 
already  described,  as  distempered  fantasies 
arising  from  the  gloomy  melancholy  in 
which  he  had  indulged,  as  the  page  had 
heard,  since  the  death  of  his  Countess. 

And  thus  it  went  on  for  many  months,  the 
faithful  Bertram  striving  all  he  could  to  win 
the  Earl  from  the  terrible  sorrow,  with  which, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  his  lord  was  afflicted  ; 
and  ever  imagining  he  was  succeeding  in 
his  endeavors,  till  some  violent  fit  of  frenzy 
would  make  its  appearance  in  the  object  of 


190 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAlvSPEARE. 


his  grateful  love,  and  prove  how  little  he  had 
gained  by  his  affectionate  painstaking.  He 
had  observed,  with  some  marvelling,  that 
when  he  had  loft  the  Earl  for  any  leugtli  of 
time  in  the  chamber  that  served  for  his 
library,  on  his  return  he  was  sure  to  find 
him,  either  gloomily  abstracted,  or  in  some 
violent  excitement.  Sometimes,  long  fits  of 
dreadful  self-reproach  would  follow,  and  at 
others,  lie  would  fiercely  insist  he  had  done 
a  right  thing.  In  the  end  he  was  sure  to 
relapse  into  his  customary  sadness,  from 
which  it  was  with  exceeding  difficulty  he 
was  thoroughly  roused.  It  chanced  to  hap, 
that  wanting  Lord  de  la  Pole  on  one  occa- 
sion, to  acquaint  him  with  something  he  had 
forgot,  Bertram  returned  to  the  library,  where 
he  had  left  him  a  few  minutes  since,  and 
not  finding  him  there,  there  w^aited,  believing 
the  Earl  liad  retired  to  his  bed-chamber. 

Finding  his  lord's  stay  was  longer  than 
lie  anticipated,  he  took  up  a  book  and  sat 
himself  down.  He  had  not  been  long  en- 
gaged in  reading,  when  he  heard  a  noise 
close  to  him,  and  glancing  towards  the  spot 
whence  it  proceeded,  to  Ins  exceeding  won- 
der, beheld  a  portion  of  the  book-case  open 
like  a  door,  ajjd  immediately  after,  the  Earl 
enter  the  ciiamber  by  its  means,  and  close  it 
carefully  after  him.  It  w"as  manifest  the 
Lord  Urban  had  no  expectation  of  finding 
his  page  where  he  was  at  that  time  ;  for,  on 
the  instant  he  caught  siglit  of  him,  he  started 
with  a  sudden  exclamation  of  svu-prise,  and 
his  look  was  angry,  and  his  manner  more 
severe  towards  Bertram  than  ever  the  youth 
had  known  it  to  be. 

"  How  darest  thou  come  here  unhid  ?"'  ex- 
claimed the  Earl,  as  with  folded  arms  he 
regarded  his  youthful  companion  with  a 
stern  scrutiny.  "  Dost  seek  to  pry  into  my 
secret  ?  Have  I  then  all  this  time  been  but 
encouraging  a  pitiful  spy,  who  laboreth  to 
thrust  liis  curiousness  into  my  most  hidden 
affairs,  tiiat  he  might  betray  me  to  the 
world  ?" 

"  My  lord  !  my  lord  !  believe  me,  I  never 
entertained  so  base  a  thought,"  replied  the 
page,  much  aflected  liis  lord  should  think  so 
iU  of  him. 

"  Wilt  promise  never  to  divulge  what 
thou  hast  seen  ?"  inquired  the  Lord  de  la 
Pole,  with  increased  earnestness. 

"  In  very  truth,  my  lord,  I  never  should 
have  mentioned  it  to  any  person  living  if  I 
thought  you  so  desired,"  said  the  other. 

"  Swear  it  !"  cried  the  Earl,  suddenly 
grasping  Iris  companion  firmly  by  the  wrist, 
seemingly  vioienlly  agitated.  "  Down  on 
thy  knees  and  swear  by  all  tliy  liopes  of  hap- 
piness here  and  licreal'tcr,  thou  wilt  hint  to 


none  there  is  otlier  entrance  to  this  chamber 
save  those  witli  which  all  are  acquainted." 
The  page  knelt  as  he  was  desired,  and  re- 
peated, as  liis  companion  stood  sternly  over 
him,  the  form  of  the  oatli  he  was  required  to 
take. 

"  As  Heaven  is  my  Vv^itness,  you  need  no 
oaths  to  bind  me  to  your  will,"  urgently  ex- 
claimed tiie  youth. 

Tlie  Earl  appeared  scarcely  satisfied  even 
by  tliis  solemn  security  he  had  exacted.  He 
was  still  showing  most  undeniable  signs  he 
wa.s  terribly  infiuenced  by  some  dark  pas- 
sion, for  anger  flashed  from  his  eyes,  and 
distrust  appeared  in  every  feature  of  liis 
countenance ;  his  breathing  was  hard  and 
loud,  and  at  every  gasp  of  breath  his  breast 
heaved  as  though  it  would  force  its  fasten- 
ings. 

"  Be  assured,  my  lord,  I  am  your  obedient 
poor  servant,  and  would  die  rather  than 
betray  any  secret  you  might  entrust  me 
witli,"  continued  the  other.  "  But  it  grieveth 
me  to  the  heart  you  should  think  so  ill  of 
me.  I  could  bear  anytliing  rather  than  you 
sliould  doubt  of  my  entire  allegiance.  Other 
friend  than  you  have  I  none  in  the  wide 
world,  and  therefore  what  could  induce  me 
to  play  the  traitor  to  your  confidence.  I 
beseech  you,  my  lord,  put  away  so  ungra- 
cious a  thought.  As  I  trust  in  God's  mercy, 
1  have  done  nought  to  merit  it." 

"  Well,  well,  boy,  perchance  I  have  been 
too  hasty,"  replied  the  Earl,  somewhat 
moved  by  the  touching  earnestness  of  the 
youth's  speech.  But  never  stay  in  this 
chamber,  even  for  a  minute,  when  I  am  not 
present.  I  sliould  have  told  thee  of  this,  my 
desire,  sooner,  but  it  never  struck  nie  there 
would  be  necessity  for  it." 

The  promise  was  cheerfully  made,  and 
i  the  Lo^'d  Urban's  customary  kindness  re- 
turning, all  trace  of  unpleasantness  speedily 
vanished  from  both. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Should    we  disdain    our   vines    because    they 

sprout 
Before   their    time  ?     Or   young  men    if  they 

strove 
Beyond  their  reach  ?     No  ;  vines  that  bloom 

and  spread 
Do  promise  fruit,  and  young  men  that  are  wild 
In  age  grow  wise. 

Greene. 

The  best  room  at  the  Crown  Inn  at  Ox- 
ford was  filled  witli  noisy  boisterous  students, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


191 


most  of  whom  were  seated  at  a  long  table, 
covered  with  drinking  vessels,  at  the  top 
of  which  was  no  other  person  than  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare,  for  whom  indeed  all  had 
assembled.  The  two  scholars  that  had 
been  liis  fellow  travellers  in  the  waggon, 
spread  amongst  their  acquaintance  of  their 
ditferent  colleges,  the  tame  of  tiie  young 
countryman  who  had  so  charmed  them 
with  his  eloquent  sweet  rhetoric,  and  this 
presently  brought  whole  companies  of  stu- 
dents to  see  this  marvellous  person.  They 
were  so  delighted  with  his  ready  wit  and 
admirable  perfect  knowledge  of  all  man- 
ner of  subjects,  that  they  increased  his  re- 
putation so  over  the  university,  the  dwel- 
ling of  John  D'Avenant,  large  as  it  was, 
could  scarce  contain  the  wonderful  great 
press  of  guests  tliat  flocked  into  it. 
Doubtless  tliis  made  the  cause  of  such 
famous  custom  to  be  in  especial  liking  with 
mine  host — but  independent  of  these  consi- 
derations, he  could  not  help  relishing  his 
guest's  society,  it  was  so  full  of  cheerful  ease 
and  pleasant  humor  ;  and  as  for  mine  iios- 
tess,  if  there  existeth  any  language  in  a  pair 
of  lustrous  dark  eyes,  she  did  discourse  to 
him  right  eloquently  of  the  favor  in  which 
he  was  held  by  her. 

Doubtless  tliese  latter  would  gladly  enougli 
have  kept  their  young  guest  where  he  was, 
but  he  had  expressed  his  determination  to 
start  for  London  the  following  morning,  and 
this  becoming  known,  the  scholars  must 
needs  give  him  a  parting  entertainment,  and 
therefore  v/ere  they  crammed  so  thick  in 
that  chamber.  Divers  were  thronging  up  to 
the  head  of  the  table,  wine  cup  in  hand,  to 
pledge  him,  and  there  was  a  monstrous  shak- 
ing of  hands  and  shouting  of  good  will ; 
others  were  talking  across  the  table,  or 
leaning  over  others  to  claim  the  attention  of 
a  distant  fellow  student.  Mistress  D'Aven- 
ant was  attending  to  her  numerous  guests  as 
well  as  she  could,  now  listening  with  pretty 
coquetry  as  one  of  the  mad  youths  retained 
her  by  the  hand,  as  he  whispered  something 
in  her  ear,  which  was  sure  to  be  followed  by 
a  box  of  his  own  from  the  comely  woman, 
though  not  one  that  argued  any  great  spite- 
fulness,  and  the  oftender  would  laugh  as  if 
lie  had  performed  some  excellent  sweet  mis- 
chief; and  presently  answering  the  num- 
berless sweet  compliments,  which  poured  on 
her  from  every  side,  with  some  sprightly  jes- 
ting speech,  which  appeared  to  put  every 
bearer  into  a  sudden  exstacy. 
I|  A  party  had  got  hold  of  her  husband  in  a 

I  corner,  and  were  trying  him  with  all  the 
t  forms  of  pleading  used  in  a  court  of  justice, 
^       and  he  appeared  to  take  the  jest  very  plea- 


santly, defending  himself  with  what  wit  he 
had,  and  leaving  his  case  to  the  merciful 
consideration  of  his  judges.  Another  party 
in  another  corner  were  dancing  of  a  measure 
to  tlieir  own  singing.  Such  a  curious  hum 
of  voices  surely  hath  rarely  been  heard 
before.  Sometimes  tiie  speeclies  were  in 
Latin,  and  at  others  English.  Here  was 
shouted  the  fag  end  of  a  macaronic  verse, 
there  the  well  known  burthen  of  a  popular 
ballad  ;  and  this  was  mingled  with  a  din  of 
cries  for  more  wine  to  the  drawers  ;  a 
knocking  of  cups  and  flasks  to  attract  the 
attention  of  their  companions,  and  peals  of 
laughter  so  long  and  loud  it  would  often  out- 
drown  every  other  noise. 

"  Will  Shakspeare  !  Will  Shakspeare  !" 
bawled  several  of  the  revelers  at  tlie  table. 
"  What  wouldst,  my  hearts  of  oak  ?"  re- 
plied their  companion,  almost  hid  amongst 
the  throng  of  laughing  riotous  scholars,  who 
had  left  their  seats  the  better  to  enjoy  his 
admirable  jests. 

"  Prithee  heed  not  those  knaves  of  Ba- 
liol,"  said  a  round  faced  stout  little  fellow  at 
his  elbow,  who  made  himself  the  noisiest  and 
merriest  of  the  whole  party. 

"  '  Knaves  of  Baliol,'  thoi»  Brazen-nose 
calf,"  exclaimed,  from  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  a  tall  youth  with  long  hair,  and  a  nose 
that  served  his  associates  as  a  peg  to  hang 
their  jests  upon,  it  was  of  so  unusual  a 
length.  "  Away  with  tliee,  thou  cinnamon 
rogue  !  What  !  because  thou  art  a  lord, 
shalt  thou  call  names  ?  Though  thou  look- 
est  so  merry,  thou  art  but  a  sorry  lord.  I 
would  carve  a  lord  out  of  a  piece  of  ginger, 
and  he  should  give  a  nobler  flavor  to  a  bowl 
of  toast  and  ale,  than  wouldst  thou  to  a  butt 
of  malmsey." 

"  Out  on  thee,"  replied  the  young  noble- 
man. "  Truly  thou  art  a  famous  carver, 
for  thou  hast  carved  thy  nose  to  a  fine  point. 
I  would  I  could  say  as  much  for  thy  wit : 
and  thou  hast  monstrous  need  of  ginger,  for 
tliere  shall  be  found  more  savor  in  a  dry  bis- 
cuit than  can  be  got  out  of  thee  after  such 
pressing." 

"  Nay,  press  him  not  too  hard,  I  prithee," 
said  another,  whose  face  appeared  as  red  as 
though  it  would  have  out-glowed  the  rising 
sun.  "  At  so  social  a  meeting  I  should  not 
like  to  see  any  bones  broke." 

"  What  dost  say  thou  salamander  ?"  cried 
the  scholar  of  BaUol  somewhat  incensed  at 
this  sly  allusion  to  his  poorness  of  flesh. 
"  Go  and  cool  thy  red  hot  aspect  in  the  river, 
it  causeth  the  whole  place  to  feel  like  an 
oven,  it  burneth  so  terribly." 

"  As  I  live  he  will  make  the  place  too  hot 
to  hold  thee,  anon,"  observed  a  companion, 


192 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


mischievously.  "  If  thou  wouldst  not  have 
us  all  roasted  alive,  blow  not  on  him  good 
Martlemas." 

"Pooh,"  exclaimed  he  of  the  red  face. 
'•  The  nose  of  such  a  bellows  must  needs 
carry  too  small  a  wind  to  inflame  me." 

"  My  nose  in  thy  teeth,  fellow  !"  cried 
Master  Martlemas,  in  a  rage. 

"  I  thank  thee  very  heartily,  bat  I  want 
not  so  delicate  a  toothpick,"  drily  replied  the 
other,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  his  com- 
panions. 

"  O  my  life,  have  I  got  amongst  a  party 
of  cunning  limners,  my  masters,"  here 
exclaimed  William  Shakspeare,  good  hu- 
moredly.  "  \ever  saw  I  such  cleverness  in 
taking  off  features."  The  laughter  which 
followed  this  conceit,  restored  every  one  to 
an  amiable  pleasantness  on  the  instant ;  but 
such  choice  spirits  could  never  keep  toge- 
ther a  moment,  without  a  trial  of  their  young 
wits,  and  therefore  no  opportunities  were  al- 
lowed to  pass  in  which  one  could  aim  his 
weapon  at  another. 

"  Sweet  Mistress  D'Avenant !"'  whisj)erod 
a  handsome  youth,  as  he  caught  his  hostess 
round  the  waist  as  she  was  passing  him. 
"  By  those  two  lustrous  stars  of  love,  I 
swear  I  have  a  most  infinite  affection  for 
thee.  Contrive  for  me  a  private  meeting,  I 
will  give  thee  TOod  proof  of  it." 

"  Canary,  did  you  say,  my  lord?"  inquired 
the  pretty  woman  aloud,  with  a  provoking 
indifferent  aspect,  as  she  glided  out  of  his 
embrace — much  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  the 
enamored  noble. 

"  Hither  my  delectable  dainty,  Hebe  !" 
cried  another  close  at  hand.  "  Brew  us  an- 
other bottle  of  goodly  Sack,  and  look  thy 
sweetest  tlie  while — I  warrant  it  shall  want 
no  sugar." 

"  O'  my  word,  I  would  it  were  so,  Master 
Lamprey,"  said  Mistress  D'Avenant  archly. 
'•  I  could  make  conserves  with  little  trouble 
and  small  expense ;  and  who  knows  but  in 
time  I  should  attain  to  such  exceeding  skill 
in  the  producing  of  sweet  subtleties,  I  might 
have  an  Oxford  scholar  or  two  done  in  sugar." 

"  Make  choice  of  me,  I  prithee,  for  thy 
first  experiment,"  murmured  one  at  her  el- 
bow. "  I  would  give  thy  tempting  lips  most 
delicious  entertainment." 

"  Metliinks  you  are  sweet  enough  upon 
me  as  it  is,"  replied  the  pretty  hostess,  in 
the  same  merry  humor.  "  But  I  care  not  to 
make  a  trial  of  you  provided  you  allow  your- 
self— as  it  is  necessary  in  such  cases — to 
simmer  over  a  good  fire  till  you  are  reduced 
to  a  proper  consistence,  and  I  have  scum  off 
of  you  every  portion  of  what  ^rossness  you 
have."     This  speech  was  followed  by  the 


hearty  laughing  of  all  within  hearing  of  it, 
for  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed  waa 
far  stouter  of  flesh  than  any  in  the  room — 
indeed,  he  was  of  a  singular  corpulence  for 
his  years. 

"  Prisoner  at  the  bar  !"  cried  one,  with  a 
famous  mock  seriousness,  who  acted  as 
judge  in  the  little  court  who  had  been  trying 
their  host.  "  After  a  long  and  most  impar- 
tial trial,  you  have  been  condemned  by  a  ju- 
ry of  good  men  and  true,  on  the  testimony 
of  divers  most  approved  witnesses,  whose 
evidence  hath  not  been  shaken  one  tittle  by 
your  defence  to  be  a  most  notorious  traitor 
and  horrible  offender  against  a  certain  very 
jiist  and  proper  law,  made  and  provided  for 
the  express  comfort  of  this  good  city  of  Ox- 
ford— to  wit,  that  all  the  comeliest  damsels 
within  a  circuit  of  five  miles  more  or  less, 
are  and  ever  must  be  wards  of  the  very 
worshipful  the  scholar  of  the  University, 
with  whom  can  no  man  living  contract  a 
marriage,  without  first  obtaining  their  privi- 
ty and  consent.  You  John  D'Avenant,  have 
dared  wickedly  to  seek  after  the  true  excel- 
lentest  fairest  creature  that  ever  deserved  to 
be  in  such  covetable  wardship,  and  with  a 
most  monstrous  hoiTible  villainy  that  all 
honest  men  must  needs  stand  aghast  at.  you 
have  taken  her  to  wife  against  the  law 
aforesaid,  and  against  the  inclinations  of 
divers  honorable  members  of  the  very  wor- 
shipful gentlemen  scholars,  who  desired  her 
for  their  own  particular  delectation. 

"  Silence  in  the  court  there !"  shouted 
the  judge  as  if  in  a  terrible  seriousness,  for 
many  were  taking  the  jest  very  merrily. 
"  Master  Attorney  I  am  shocked  to  see  yon 
so  behave  yourself  at  so  awful  a  moment." 

"  My  lord,  I  humbly  beg  pardon,"  an- 
swered a  merry  varlet,  who  seemed  to  be 
doing  all  he  could  to  keep  in  his  laughing ; 
but  the  jests  and  mirthful  behavior  of  certain 
of  the  jury  and  his  brother  counsellors,  were 
such  as  might  provoke  the  mirth  of  a  more 
serious  man. 

"  Prisoner  at  the  bar  !"  continued  the 
judge,  waxing  more  ludicrously  soleum  as 
he  proceeded.  "  Jt  bccometh  to  be  now  my 
painful  duty  to  pass  on  you  your  sentence. 
Hope  not  for  mercy,  for,  metliinks,  guilt 
such  as  yours  ought  to  expect  none.  I 
grieve  to  .'^ee  so  young  a  person,  and  one  of 
otherwise  good  character,  take  to  the  doing 
of  so  insunerablc  an  otfence.  But  it  is  evi- 
dent you  have  lacked  good  counsel  abomina- 
bly. Had  you  sought  myself  now,  previous 
to  your  marriage  witli  that  exquisite  sweet 
creature,  I  doubt  not  it  would  have  been  to 
botli  our  conttMits.  I  would  have  paved  the 
way  for  your  obtaining  your  honest  desires, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SH/yCSPEARE. 


193 


In  such  a  manner  that  you  should  have  done 
nothing  unlawful. 

"  Master  Attorney !"  cried  the  judge, 
with  a  notable  grave  dignity,  as  a  roar  of 
laughter  broke  from  that  unlawyer-looking 
person,  "  see  I  any  more  of  this  unsemely 
conduct,  I'll  commit  you  for  contempt." — 
Then  he  added,  turning  to  the  culprit,  who 
strove  all  he  could  to  keep  a  serious  coun- 
tenance, though  with  but  an  imperfect  suc- 
cess. "  Jolin  D'Avenant,  it  would  be  but 
a  pro]:)er  punishment  of  your  horrible  crime 
to  pass  on  you  the  extreme  sentence  of  the 
law,  but  in  consideration  of  this  being  your 
tirst  offence,  and  out  of  regard  for  your  youth 
and  inexperience,  I  make  this  your  sentence 
— Your  wife  shall  be  kissed  before  your 
face,  and  you  shall  yourself  appoint  the  per- 
son to  execute  that  punishment.  Officers, 
keep  fast  the  doors." 

In  a  moment  some  hastened  to  prevent 
Mistress  D'Avenant's  escape,  and  others 
crowded  round  her  husband,  recommending 
themselves  as  capital  executioners  who 
would  do  their  office  neatly,  with  as  little 
pain  as  need  be.  The  uproar  of  voices  vvas 
greater  than  ever,  and  nothing  but  shouting 
-and  laughing  prevailed  all  over  the  chamber. 
The  young  husband,  who  was  rather  of  a 
more  careless  idle  humor  than  was  proper 
lor  one  in  his  vocation,  though  he  never  took 
■so  much  heed  of  his  handsome  wife  as  was 
necessary,  liked  not  these  wild  scholars  to 
be  over  familiar  with  her,  and  he  would,  if 
he  could,  have  done  away  with  the  sen- 
tence ;  but  he  knev/  full  well  the  sort  of 
characters  he  had  to  deal  with,  and  that 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  submit  with 
a  good  grace.  A  thought  suggested  itself 
to  him  that  it  was  better  his  wife  should  be 
caressed  by  a  stranger  who  was  not  like  to 
Kee  her  again,  than  by  one  who  would  re- 
main in  the  neighborhood,  and  might  per- 
chance seek  opportunities  for  obtaining  a 
repetition  of  such  pleasure — therefore,  to 
the  importunities  of  those  by  whom  he  was 
surrounded  he  presently  named  William 
Shakspeare  as  the  person  vt'ho  should  fultil 
the  sentence. 

Amid  all  this  din  and  very  Babel-like  con- 
fusion of  tongues,  the  young  traveller  had 
been  engaged  in  an  interesting  discussion 
with  one  or  two  kindred  minds  he  had  dis- 
covered amongst  the  mass,  but  when  he  was 
•called  on  to  do  the  duty  assigned  him,  he 
rose  nothing  loath,  and  entered  into  the  spirit 
of  the  jest  very  readily.  In  a  very  short 
time  the  busy  laughing  scholars  cleared  the 
table  for  to  be  the  place  of  execution,  and  a 
certain  divinity  student  there  present,  was 
-appointed  to  be  the  prisoner's  ghostly  com- 
13 


forter,  and  to  preach  a  sermon  on  the  sub- 
ject, for  the  edification  of  all  present — at  the 
conclusion  of  which  the  sentence  was  to  be 
carried  into  effect. 

"  Truly,  my  masters,  these  are  most  sad 
doings,"  exclaimed  Mistress  D'Avenant,  who 
was  fast  held  by  two  young  men,  who  took 
upon  themselves  the  duty  of  constables. 
"  I  marvel  you  should  behave  so  uncivilly 
against  a  poor  woman  who  hath  done  no  ill 
to  any  of  you."  Thereupon,  the  judge  very 
gravely  told  her  that  the  course  of  justice 
must  not  be  perverted  for  the  favoring  of  any 
individual ;  and  the  preacher  commenced  a 
famous  lecture  on  the  duty  every  person 
oweth  to  those  put  in  authority  over  them. 
In  this  way  she  was  brought  to  stand  in  the 
center  of  the  table — her  husband  at  a  short 
distance,  also  held  by  two  scholars,  with  the 
preacher  at  his  elbow,  bidding  him  repent  of 
his  sins  for  his  time  was  come — William 
Shakspeare  close  by,  gravely  asking  of  his 
pardon,  swearing  he  bore  him  no  malice, 
but  did  his  terrible  office  because  he  was 
bound  by  his  duty  so  to  do  ;  and  the  judges, 
assisted  by  the  sheriftl;  and  constables  that 
stood  upon  the  stools  round  the  table,  were 
commanding  silence  from  their  riotous  mad- 
cap companions  on  the  floor. 

Then  the  preacher  began  his  sermon,  and 
such  a  sermon  as  he  then  delivered  had  ne- 
ver been  heard  there  or  anywhere  else.  He 
started  with  endeavoring  to  prove  the  neces- 
sity there  was  for  the  furtherance  of  the 
public  morals,  that  learned  persons  should 
possess  and  keep  in  their  charge  all  comely 
maidens  of  a  tender  age, — for  they  being 
wiser  than  any  other  class,  had  alone  the 
discretion  necessary  for  the  proper  bringing 
up  of  such  gentle  creatures.  No  doctrine 
was  ever  considered  half  so  orthodox;  but 
the  preacher  seemed  inclined  to  put  it  be- 
yond the  possibility  of  cavil,  for  he  presently 
fell  to  quoting  divers  of  the  Fathers — brought 
forward  long  passages  from  the  writings  of 
the  most  famous  theologians,  and  referred  to 
what  had  been  laid  down  on  the  subject  by 
the  Council  of  Trent,  and  in  various  bulls 
published  by  the  most  influential  of  the  Ro- 
mish pontiffs ;  and  this  was  done  with  so 
earnest  a  seriousness,  that  many  did  imag- 
ine that  such  things  had  really  been  said 
and  written. 

"  Oh,  fine  preacher  !"  cried  one. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  a  bishop.  Sir  Topas  !"  ex- 
claimed another. 

"  Marry,  thou  wouldst  convert  a  dead  In- 
dian, thou  speakest  so  movingly,"  added  a 
third.  Others  compared  him  to  Peter  the 
Hermit,  and  some  questioned  him,  how  he 
stood  affected  towards  martyrdom — he  ap- 


194 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


peared  so  fit  for  it.  But  the  preacher  went 
on  as  gravely  as  he  could,  and  then  alluded 
to  the  unhappy  man  who  had  fallen  under 
the  vengeance  of  offended  justice,  and  beg- 
ged the  prayers  of  all  good  Christians  in  his 
behalf,  seeing  that  he  was  about  making 
amends  for  the  wrong  he  had  done,  through 
punishment  by  the  secular  arm.  Then  he 
recommended  the  culprit  to  their  charitable 
thoughts  with  such  a  monstrous  earnestness 
^-drawing  so  pitiful  a  picture  of  the  terrible 
sufferings  he  was  about  to  undergo — that 
the  hearers  fell  to  wailing  and  weeping  most 
woefully. 

"  Alack,  that  any  man  should  come  to  so 
miserable  an  end !"  moaned  Master  Lamprey. 

"  And  one  that  sold  such  brave  liquor  too !'' 
cried  Master  Martlemas,  in  still  more  doleful 
accents. 

Then  the  preacher  concliuled  with  a  fa- 
mous exhortation  to  his  auditory  ever  to 
bear  in  mind  the  notable  example  now  set 
before  them ;  and  having  g-ained  from  the 
culprit  that  he  confessed  the  justice  of  his 
sentence,  and  was  ready  to  meet  his  punish- 
ment, master  sheriff  called  forward  the  ex- 
ecutioner to  do  his  duty  without  delay ; 
whereupon  William  Shakspeare  readily 
stepped  up  to  Mistress  D'Avenant,  who 
looked  as  though  she  had  not  made  up  her 
mind  whether  to  make  a  struggle  or  take 
the  matter  quietly. 

"  I  pray  you,  most  sweet  hostesss,  to  par- 
don this  my  compulsory  duty,"  said  the  ex- 
ecutioner, as  seriously  as  any  of  them.  "  I 
assure  you,  were  f  not  bound  by  a  superior 
power,  I  would  not  do  it — at  least  I  would 
not  do  it  so  publicly — I  would  spare  you  all 
this  painful  exposure.    I  would,  believe  me." 

"  Away  with  you  !  O'  my  word,  'tis  a 
shame  you  should  play  such  a  jest  upon 
me,"  answered  Mistress  D'Avenant,  as  she 
made  some  show  of  struggling,  but  it  was 
of  so  slight  a  sort  that  very  little  sufficed  to 
overcome  it,  and  the  next  minute  every  one 
had  demonstrated  the  awful  sentence  of  the 
law  had  been  carried  into  effect.  This  was 
followed  by  shouts  of  triumph  from  some, 
and  cries  of  condolence  by  others,  to  the 
now  liberated  husband  and  wife  ;  and  in  a 
short  time  after,  the  whole  party  again  found 
their  places  at  the  table,  and  were  jesting, 
drinking,  and  laugliing  as  famously  as  ever. 
Mistress  D'Avenant  scolded  her  partner  right 
eloquently,  for  allowing  of  such  scandalous 
l)ehavior,  and  mine  host  assured  her  he 
would  gladly  have  helped  it  if  he  could :  but 
she  did  not  seem  to  be  quite  comforted  with 
such  excuses — for  all  which,  it  was  confi- 
dently believed  by  some,  she  was  not  the 
least  pleased  of  the  company. 


All  at  once  there  was  a  great  cry  for  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare  to  sing  them  a  song.  This 
he  had  already  done  several  times,  to  the 
delight  of  his  hearers,  that  they  seemed  as 
though  they  could  never  have  enough  ot 
such  delicious  minstrelsy ;  nevertheless  tliey 
l)romised,  would  he  favor  them  with  one 
more,  they  would  be  content.  After  re- 
questing their  indulgence  for  a  simple  ditty 
— the  only  thing  he  could  at  the  present 
moment  call  to  his  mind — he  sang  the  fol- 
lowing verses  ;  the  noisy  scholars  the  whilst 
hushed  to  as  complete  a  peace  as  if  none 
were  in  the  chamber : 

A    SONO    OF   FRIENDSHIP. 

"  Sweet  friends  !  let  Pleasure's  social  law. 

Our  souls  to  genial  thoughts  dispose, 
For  liff^'s  rich  stream  doth  freely  thaw, 

And  bloom  and  sun  smile  where  it  flows. 
'Tis  now  with  us  the  budding  May, 

From  nature's  bank  let's  freely  borrow, 
Around  our  Maypole  dance  to-day, 

Our  fates  may  make  us  pipe  to-morrow. 

"  Dear  friends  !  the  rosy  mom  is  ours 

To  sport  away  :  the  hunt  is  up  ! 
But  crown  your  game  with  twin-like  flowers — 

The  brimming  heart  and  brimming  cup. 
Now  Phoebus  glows  through  all  the  east ; 

And  joy,  our  lord,  hath  banish'd  sorrow  ; 
Then  haste  to  take  his  welcome  feast — 

Our  fates  may  make  us  fast  to-morrow. 

"  Brave  friends  !  let  Time  no  vantage  gain, 

Entrench  your  camp,  your  wants  provide  ; 
Whilst  Youth  and  Love  your  fight  sustain, 

You  m;iy  for  years  his  siege  abide. 
As  friendly  looks  shed  round  their  light, 

From  star  or  moon  you  need  not  borrow  ; 
Enjoy  them  while  they  shine  to-night — 

Our  fates  may  quench  their  beams  to-morrow. 

Universal  were  the  plaudits  which  fol- 
lowed the  conclusion  of  William  Shaks- 
pearc's  singing,  and  well  deserved  were  they 
too,  out  of  all  doubt ;  for  in  the  belief  that 
this  was  the  last  night  he  should  see  the 
friendly  company  around  him,  ho  put  such 
expression  into  the  words  as  could  liave 
been  produced  by  no  other.  Perchance  the 
greater  portion  of  Iiis  new  acquaintances 
saw  in  him  only  an  exceeding  pleasant  per- 
son, but  he  was  regarded  in  a  much  more 
brilliant  light  by  some  two  or  three  ])resent ; 
whom,  witli  that  unerring  sympatliy  which 
leadeth  great  minds  to  their  fellows,  he  had 
singled  out  from  their  more  noisy  compan- 
ions, to  show  to  them  somewhiU  of  liis  true 
nature.  As  they  listened  to  the  thrilling  el- 
oquence of  his  language,  and  perceived  how 
pregnant  it  was  with  new  and  profound 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


195 


meanings,  they  did  marvel  exceedingly ;  and  ' 
1  as  the  natural  nobility  of  the  man  developed 
!  itself  before  their  amazed  glances,  there  en- 
I  tered  into  their  hearts  a  loving  reverence —  | 
the  worship  of  true  greatness  among  kin- 
I  dred  natures — they  had  never  felt  during 
'  their  whole  lives.  It  was  far  into  the  even- 
1  ing  before  the  party  broke  up,  and  il  ended 
with  abundance  of  good  wishes  from  the 
thoughtless  many ;  and  earnest  hopes  of 
again  meeting,  from  the  discerning  few.  > 
When  the  young  traveller  rose  in  the 
morning  to  continue  his  journey,  he  found 
Mistress  D'Avenant  in  a  chamber  by  herself, 
putting  his  things  together  ready  for  his  tak- 
ing with  him.  She  was  a  woman  as  far 
superior  in  mental  as  she  was  in  personal 
endowments  to  persons  in  her  sphere  of  life ; 
for  her  natural  strong  mind  had  been  care- 
fully cultivated  ;  and  possessed  of  such  gifts, 
she  was  the  very  sort  of  woman  that  would 
most  appreciate  a  man  so  prodigally  gar- 
nished with  admirable  qualities  as  was  her 
youthful  guest.  Her  marriage  had  not  been  , 
one  of  affection,  and  her  husband  quickly 
proved  himself  a  person  whose  weakness  of; 
character  she  could  hold  in  no  esteem.  Her  I 
superior  intellect  soon  exerted  its  proper  in-  ! 
fluence,  which  he  very  readily  acknowledged,  ■ 
leaving  his  affairs  to  her  entire  management,  j 
whilst  he  sought  for  nothing  but  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  thoughtless  pleasures  ;  but  such 
conduct  still  more  lessened  her  respect  for 
liim  ;  and  when  she  beheld  the  manly  dispo- 
sition of  William  Shakspeare,  and  caught 
glimpses  of  the  marvellous  noble  mind  with 
which  it  was  accompanied,  she  could  not 
help  wishing  Heaven  had  blessed  lier  with 
so  choice  a  husband.  As  for  the  young 
traveller,  he  could  not  avoid  seeing  and  ad- 
miring the  extraordinary  capacity  his  beau- 
tiful hostess  evinced  in  such  converse  as  he 
had  with  her,  and  the  extreme  perfectness 
with  whicli  she  fulfilled  her  household  du- 
ties ;  and  more  than  once  he  found  himself 
making  comparisons  between  such  estima- 
bloness,  and  the  neglectful  and  obstinate 
behaving  of  his  vain  and  ignorant  wife, 
whereby  the  latter's  unworthiness  was  shown 
in  most  glaring  colors.  At  the  end,  he  would 
grieve  he  had  not  met  with  so  excellent  rare 
a  partner  as  had  John  D'Avenant. 

Having  now  been  staying  at  the  Crown 
several  days,  on  a  footing  of  the  completest 
intimacy,  he  had  ample  opportunity  for  in- 
creasing the  admiration  he  felt  for  his  charm- 
ing hostess ;  and  she  getting  more  knowledge 
of  his  notable  excellences,  laid  herself  out  to 
please  him  as  much  as  she  could.  It  was  a 
dangerous  situation  for  two  young  persons, 
so  admirably  gifted  in  mind  and  person,  and 


so  unhappily  accommodated  in  marriage,  to 
be  placed  in.  Each  could  not  help  desiring 
to  be  well  esteemed  of  the  other,  as  the  best 
token  they  could  have  of  their  own  worthi- 
ness ;  and  neither  could  avoid  holding  the 
other  first  in  their  esteem,  their  qualities 
were  so  much  more  estimable  than  those  of 
any  person  of  their  acquaintance.  Both 
had  had  but  little  sleep  this  last  night 
through  continual  thinking  of  the  approach- 
ing separation ;  and,  earlier  than  usual, 
Mistress  D'Avenant  left  her  husband  sleep- 
ing off  the  effects  of  his  evening  reveling, 
to  prepare  for  the  departure  of  her  youthful 
guest.  When  the  latter  made  his  appear- 
ance before  her,  there  was  a  tear  upon  the 
long  lashes  of  her  dark  eyes,  but  she  speed- 
ily commenced  affecting  her  customary  cheer- 
fulness ;  and  he  too,  merely  addressed  her 
with  his  ordinary  gallantry ;  yet,  in  their 
hearts  the  while,  there  were  feelings  as  dif- 
ferent to  their  outward  conduct,  as  is  light 
to  darkness. 

For  all  this  show  of  indifference,  neither 
could  conceal  from  the  other  the  extent  to 
which  they  were  feigning.  The  trifling 
speech  which  kept  so  carefully  to  all  man- 
ner of  matters  of  little  moment,  as  it  had 
never  done  before,  grew  less  and  less,  and 
then  came  to  brief  sentences,  spoken  with 
tremulousness,  till,  for  a  time,  words  would 
fail  them  altogether ;  and  the  careless  man- 
ner of  their  behavior,  gradually  left  them  for 
an  evident  restlessness,  and  such  listless 
doing  of  their  occupations,  as  bore  witness 
to  the  extreme  confusion  of  their  thoughts 
and  feelings.  Mistress  D'Avenant  was  put- 
ting the  last  knot  to  the  little  bundle  of  things 
her  companion  had  brought  with  him,  and 
she  was  engaged  upon  it  with  so  extraordi- 
dinary  a  care,  pulling  it  to  a  proper  tight- 
ness, and  smoothing  the  folds  of  the  bundle, 
as  though  she  could  never  satisfy  herself 
with  her  work ;  and  William  Shakspeare 
close  beside  her,  was  putting  on  his  left- 
hand  glove,  so  deliberately,  and  with  such 
prodigious  heed  that  every  finger  should  fit 
well  into  the  leather,  as  if  such  a  thing  was 
an  affair  only  to  be  attempted  with  the  at- 
tentiveness  of  a  matter  of  vital  importance. 
As  these  things  were  doing,  their  hearts 
were  beating  high  and  wildly,  and  each  felt 
the  scarce  endurable  struggle  of  the  power- 
fullest  impulses  of  humanity  laboring  for  a 
free  existence.  "  Well,  this  must  needs 
do,"  said  Mistress  D'Avenant,  with  a  great 
effort,  as  she  placed  the  little  bundle  near 
her  guest. 

"  Oh,  it  will  do  exceeding  well,"  grate- 
fully replied  he,  giving  it  a  hasty  glance. 
He  appeared  to  have  got  his  glove  on  to  his 


196 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPE^MIE. 


liking,  or  rather,  he  thought  like  his  fair 
companion,  the  time  was  now  come  for  ac- 
tion. He  held  out  his  ungloved  hand  before 
her,  and  forced  a  faint  smile  into  his  hand- 
some countenance. 

"  It  is  full  time  I  should  be  on  my  jour- 
ney," he  added,  hurriedly  ;  "  so  now  I  must 
take  my  leave  of  you."  She  seized  his 
liand,  with  a  very  desperate  grasp,  as  it 
■were,  her  own  trembling  all  the  while  ;  and 
looked  up  into  his  eyes  with  a  glance,  w^here- 
of  the  expression  baffleth  all  my  powers  of 
description — it  was  so  imi)loringly  tender. 
He  continued,  "  I  cannot  attempt  to  thank 
you  for  the  very  bountiful  sweet  kindness 
you  have  shown  unto  me,  since  it  hath  been 
my  good  hap  to  dwell  beneath  this  roof:  but, 
believe  me,  tlic  memory  of  it  caimot  pass 
away,  as  long  as  my  grateful  nature  bear- 
eth  any  token  of  thought,  feeling  and  life." 

"  Oil,  sir,  methinks  it  scarce  deserveth  any 
mention,  replied  his  beautiful  hostess,  with 
such  emphasis,  as  words  have  only  when 
they  come  direct  from  the  heart.  "  Had  I 
been  a  thousand  times  more  attentive  to  your 
desires,  1  could  not  in  mine  own  opinion^ 
have  done  for  you  one  half  sufficient.  But 
you  are  going.  I  just  begin  to  learn  how 
to  appreciate  your  inestimable  excellences, 
when  you  hurry  yourself  away ;  and,  per- 
chance, I  may  never  have  sight  of  you 
again." 

•'  O  my  life,  sweet  Mistress  D'Avenant,  I 
will  not  allow  that  to  be,  for  my  own  sake !" 
exclaimed  her  companion.  "  Be  assured,  I 
know  the  infinite  worth  of  the  treasure  I 
leave  behind  me  too  well,  to  neglect  it ;  and 
of  whatever  1  most  covet  of  Fortune,  a 
speedy  return  to,  and  a  long  continuance  of 
your  generous  behavior  have  the  first  place. 
My  only  fear  is,  my  poor  name  may  be  too 
speedily  forgotten." 

"  Never,  Master  Shakspeare  !"  cried  the 
beautiful  woman,  earnestly,  "truly  T  must 
be  dead  to  every  sense  of  goodness,  when 
my  memory  faileth  me  on  so  poodly  a  sub- 
ject. Believe  me,  in  future  times,  I  will 
look  back  upon  the  days  I  have  known  you 
as  the  very  suimiest  of  my  existence  ;  and 
might  I  have  any  liope  of  such  enjoyment 
again,  I  could  endure  my  miserable  state 
with  a  proper  patience.  Go,  sweet  sir,  since 
it  must  needs  be.  I  mistake  you,  hugely,  if 
you  can  tliink  ill  of  me  at  my  now  adding, 
you  take  with  you  all  that  1  can  deem  of 
most  sterling  preciousness  in  this  world." 

"  Dear  Mistress  D'Avenant !  assure  your- 
self I  will  essay  all  means  to  deserve  such 
honorable  opinion,"  replied  he,  much  touch- 
ed by  this  proof  of  confidence  in  his  integ- 
rity ;  "  what  my  feelings  are  for  you  I  can- 


not trust  myself  to  express ;  and  yet  nothing 
is  so  true  as  that  their  whole  tendency  is  to 
hold  you  as  a  pattern  of  everj-thing  thai  is 
noblest  in  woman." 

Thus  parted  the  youthful  Shakspeare  and 
the  lovely  Mistress  D'Avenant ;  and  soon 
after  he  was  once  more  a  traveller,  trudging 
his  way  manfully  along  the  high  road  with 
his  little  burthen  on  his  shoulder — his 
thoughts  looking  towards  Oxford  and  his 
steps  directed  in  the  way  of  London.  Hither- 
to his  journey  had  been  productive  of  infinite 
profit  to  him  in  getting  acquainted  with  the 
humors  of  men — his  favorite  study  ;  but  his 
stay  at  the  great  university  had  been  pro- 
digiously to  his  entertainment,  for  he  visited 
every  college,  and  examined  every  building, 
with  an  especial  veneration  for  their  learned 
character,  and  a  particular  delight  in  their 
historical  associations.  As  he  proceeded  on 
his  journey  his  mind  dwelt  delightedly  on  the 
events  of  the  preceding  days,  till  it,  at  last, 
fixed  itself  with  a  truly  marvellous  pleasure, 
on  the  handsome  young  hostess  of  the  Crown 
Inn.  He  could  not  have  avoided  observing 
how  unsuitable  to  such  a  woman  was  her 
husband ;  and  it  was  too  apparent  to  him 
that  her  situation  was  far  from  pleasing  to 
her.  To  be  as  tenderly  esteemed  of  so  ad- 
mirable a  creature,  as  she  had  given  him 
reason  to  believe  he  was,  gave  him  w-ith 
an  inexpressible  sweet  pleasure,  a  peculiar 
pride  in  himself,  for  he — in  the  true  spirit  of 
nobleness  which  influences  the  high-minded 
man  when  he  findeth  himself  beloved  by  a 
wortliy  woman — looked  upon  it  as  the  chief 
est  honor  his  humanity  could  attain  ;  and, 
beyond  all  doubting,  there  is  nothing  of  whicli 
true  manhood  should  be  so  proud  ;  and  when 
as  in  this  instance,  a  woman,  so  \mhappily 
circumstiinced,  showeth  herself  to  be  above 
all  petty  prejudices  and  selfish  cares,  and 
declareth  her  feelings  in  fullest  confidence, 
iTolieving  tiieir  cause  and  their  tendency  to 
be  too  exalted  to  produce  any  base  conclu- 
sions, the  man  must  be  a  disgrace  to  the 
name  ho  bears,  if  he  do  not  feel  himself  as 
proud  a  creature  as  may  bo  found  in  the 
whole  world. 

A  being  so  well-disposed  as  was  WiUiam 
Shakspeare,  most  assuredly  would  ap])rociatc 
such  conduct  at  a  price  beyond  all  telling. 
Now,  filled  as  he  was  by  the  thrilling  im- 
pulses of  early  manhood,  when  a  sympathy 
for  wliat  is  loveable  stirs  in  every  vein,  lie 
was  peculiarly  open  to  favorable  impressions 
from  the  other  sex,  but  his  sense  of  good 
which  so  completely  had  the  custody  of 
aftections,  exerted  over  him  a  higher  power, 
and  were  directed  to  better  pur|Kises,  than 
coidd  any  mere  admiration ;  and  whilst  it 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


197 


threw  open  his  mind  and  heart  to  cliamber 
worthily  the  excellence  of  beauty,  it  kept  for 
them  there  a  still  more  honorable  lodging 
for  the  beauty  of  excellence.  He  felt,  the 
whilst,  a  motive  free  from  selfish  considera- 
tions, for  hitherto  he  had  sought  but  for  to 
raise  himself  and  those  belonging  to  him ; 
but  now  he  would  seek  his  exaltation  rather 
as  a  pedestal  to  place  another's  goodness  at 
its  summit.  Mistress  D'Avenant  in  her 
avowal,  iiad  exhibited  that  fearlessnees, 
which  those  only  know,  who,  whatever  may 
be  their  situation,  are  under  tlie  noblest  in- 
fluences. A  meaner  nature  so  circum- 
stanced would  have  sought  to  hide  her  feel- 
ings, and  exhausted  the  artillery  of  feminine 
dissimulation  ere  she  would  have  allowed 
them  to  be  known  ;  but  in  such  a  disposition, 
those  feelings  would  have  argued  a  weak- 
ness, and,  perchance,  have  led  to  a  crime, 
whilst  in  the  other,  they  were  an  undeniable 
evidence  of  strength,  and,  more  than  any 
other  thing,  would  have  induced  to  virtue. 

It  is  more  than  idle  for  any  to  assert  that  a 
married  woman  to  love  any  man  save  her 
partner,  is  not  to  be  tolerated  under  any 
circumstances,  for  where  she  is  ill-matched, 
there  cannot  be  so  notable  a  way  to  keep 
her  to  the  proper  duties  of  good  wifehood, 
than  to  place  her  affections  in  so  honorable 
a  quarter,  she  must  needs  know  that  only  by 
the  most  excellent  behavior  can  she  be  held 
in  such  esteem  there  as  she  desires — whereof 
the  consequence  must  be,  she  will  bear  with 
the  humors  of  a  bad  husband,  and  show  a 
cheerful  endurance  of  her  unhappy  fate  in- 
fluenced by  the  gladdening  hope  of  gaining 
what  she  most  covets.  Deprived  of  so  com- 
fortable a  stimulus,  the  chances  are  the  un- 
happy wife  would  sink  into  a  miserable 
apathy,  or,  in  disgust  of  her  condition  would 
easily  become  the  prey  of  any  dishonest 
artifices  that  might  be  directed  against  her 
by  a  pretended  lover.  IVlayhap  some  may 
say  such  ennobling  love  so  produced  is  rarely 
to  be  found,  but  I  place  my  faith  too  strongly 
on  the  honorableness  of  woman,  to  doubt  it 
would  be  familiar  enough,  were  men  to  be 
met  with  of  sufiicient  worthiness  to  call  it 
into  more  frequent  existence.  At  least,  such 
was  the  affection  with  which  Mistress  D'- 
Avenant regarded  the  youthful  Shakspeare, 
and  the  latter  entertained  it  as  of  such  a  sort, 
and  fully  resolved  it  should  so  continue,  if  its 
lasting  depended  on  his  efforts  to  deserve  it. 
His  thoughts  very  profitably  employed,  the 
young  traveller  pursued  his  journey.  The 
waggon  had  gone  too  far  to  bo  overtaken  by 
his  walking,  and  though  he  was  passed,  or 
came  up  to  divers  carriers  laden  with  pack- 
ages of  all  kinds,  his  expenses  had  already 


so  diminished  his  means,  that  he  found  him- 
self unable  to  purchase  a  sitting  in  any  of 
their  carts,  without  leaving  himself  penni- 
less ere  his  journey  was  finished.  Indeed, 
as  it  was,  l^y  the  time  he  reached  Uxbridge, 
when  he  had  paid  his  bill  for  lodging  he 
started  in  the  morning  with  his  purse  emp- 
tied of  the  last  coin.  This  was  a  discovery 
that  would  have  come  exceeding  unpleasant- 
ly to  many  in  a  like  situation  with  himself, 
for  he  was  still  a  good  distance  from  his 
destination  and  nothing  wherewith  to  get 
him  bed  or  board  when  he  there  arrived  ;  but 
with  tiie  eager  hope  of  youth,  he  trudged 
along  in  higTi  spirits,  fully  convinced  he  had 
but  to  show  himself  to  the  elder  Burbage, 
and  his  old  acquaintance  would  welcome 
him  with  all  proper  heartiness. 

As  he  was  trudging  manfully  along,  and 
had  got  within  a  mile  or  so  of  Tyburn,  he 
came  up  to  three  men  dressed  with  some 
appearance  of  respectability,  who  seemed  to 
be  comporting  of  themselves  very  merrily. 
The  one  was  a  stout  fellow  with  a  bold 
swaggering  and  an  impudent  daring  look 
with  him,  his  face  pimpled,  and  his  nose  of 
a  somewhat  prominent  redness  about  the  top 
of  it.  He  was  attired  in  an  old  plum-colored 
velvet  doublet — stained  down  the  front,  as  if 
with  wine — his  hose  were  scarlet,  though 
the  tint  was  fading  through  dirt  and  age; 
and  his  trunks  had  been  of  an  orange 
twaney,  but  by  this  time  they  were  nigher 
of  a  sad  color.  He  wore  roses  in  his  shoes,  > 
but  they  looked  as  though  they  had  grown  - 
in  a  chimney,  and  his  hat  was  of  that  sort 
that  are  distinguished  by  a  high  crown,  but 
a  spectator  might  look  as  high  as  the  skies 
and  yet  see  no  crown  of  any  kind.  His 
companions  were  garmented  in  no  better 
fashion — one  of  whom,  was  a  blear-eyed 
youth,  with  a  famous  large  mouth  drawn  on 
one  side  as  though  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  biting  round  a  corner  :  and  the  other  was 
chiefly  noticeable,  for  a  short,  stiff,  red  beard, 
that  stood  out  of  his  chin  like  a  broken  brick 
hanging  over  an  old  door-way. 

"  Ha,  truly  a  good  jest.  Master  Sugarsob, 
— a  good  jest  o'  my  life,"  cried  the  first, 
seeming  to  be  in  a  famous  mood  for  laughing. 
"  Bots  on't !"  exclaimed  he,  with  the  wry 
mouth,  "  I  see  not  the  jest,  Captain  Sack, 
and  if  a  jest  it  be,  I  like  not  the  humor  on't  I 
promise  you." 

"  By  this  hand,  my  Lord  Cinnamon,  I 
meant  no  offence  in't !"  exclaimed  the  own- 
er of  the  red-beard,  with  prodigious  earnest- 
ness. 

"I  like  not  the  humor  on't — I  like  not  the 
humor  on't,"  muttered  he  who  had  been 
styled  Lord  Cinnamon,  twisting  his  mouth  in 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


a  manner  as  though  he  had  a  marvellous 
inclination  to  bite  otf  the  end  of  his  left  ear. 

"  I  tell  thee,"  'tis  a  most  exquisite  jest," 
cried  the  one  called  Captain  Sack,  laughing 
out  of  all  moderation.  "  What  sayst  Alaster 
Countryman  ?" 

The  young  traveller  felt  somewhat  sur- 
prised at  being  apjiealed  to  in  a  matter  of 
which  he  was  entirely  ignorant,  but  lie 
could  not  help  feeling  amused  at  the'  droll 
figures  of  the  persons  before  him. 

"I  prithee  tell  me  the  jest,  and  I  will  say 
what  I  think  of  it,"  replied  he. 

"  'Tis  no  more  than  this,"  said  the  pimple- 
faced  gentleman,  as  he  very  impudently 
stared  the  other  in  the  face,  whilst  he  cut 
the  youth's  purse  from  his  gii'dle,  and  on 
the  same  instant,  the  other  two  stood  on 
each  side  of  him,  with  their  daggers'  points 
at  his  throat.  He  saw  at  a  glance  resist- 
ance was  useless. 

"'Ifaith,  if  that  be  all  the  jest,  I  see  not 
much  in  it,"  observed  William  Shakspeare, 
who  could  not  resist  his  natural  tendency 
even  at  such  a  moment. 

"  Why,  how  now,  and  be  hanged  to  thee !" 
exclaimed  the  disappninted  thief,  as  he  be- 
held the  emptiness  of  the  purse  he  had  taken. 
"  Dost  put  thy  quips  upon  us  ?  How  darest 
to  come  abroad  in  such  heathen  fashion. 
'Shght  'tis  a  jest  with  a  vengeance  !" 

"  I  see  not  the  humor  on't — I  see  not  the 
humor  on't!"  cried  his  wrymouthed  com- 
panion, seemingly  as  if  he  enjoyed  his  as- 
sociate's dissatisfaction. 

"  Nor  I  either.  Jemmy,"  answered  the 
cut-purse ;  "  but  at  least  here  is  better 
jesting."  And  thereupon  he  snatched  away 
from  the  youth  his  little  bundle  of  linen.  At 
this  moment,  a  string  of  pack-horses  becom- 
ing visible  in  the  road,  the  three  tliieves 
made  oft' as  fast  as  they  could  down  a  bye 
lane,  leaving  the  young  traveller  to  continue 
his  journey  not  only  without  money  of  any 
kind,  as  he  was  before,  but  without  a  single 
thing  for  his  wearing,  save  what  he  had  on 
his  back. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Goe,  little  Booke  I  thyself  present, 
As  child  whose  part'nt  is  unkent. 
To  him  that  is  the.  President 
Of  Nobleness  and  Chicalrie. 
And  if  that  envy  bark  at  thee — 
As  sure  it  will — for  succor  flee 
Under  the  shrulow  of  his  wing. 

Spensek. 

Methinks,  it  is  now  high  time,  the  courte- 
ous reader  shoidd  know  something  concern- 


ing of  the  two  young  knights,  kinsmen  to 
yir  Marmaduke  de  Largesse,  who  were  left 
in  so  .sore  a  strait  sometime  since,  Sir  Re- 
ginald being  badly  wounded  by  one  whom 
he  had  so  unjustly  regarded  as  a  false  friend, 
and  Sir  Valentine  seeming  to  be  still  more 
hurt  he  had  done  his  companion  in  arms  such 
dainageuient.  Little  time  was  lost  in  con- 
veying the  latter  to  his  kinsman's  residence, 
where  his  loving  cousin  night  and  day  at- 
tended on  iiim  better  than  could  have  done 
the  faithfulest  nurse  that  ever  was  known. 
The  wounded  knight  could  not  be  indifferent 
to  such  loving  service,  and  when  he  was 
told  the  exact  history  of  his  behavior  to  their 
mutual  fair  mistress,  he  loved  him  more  than 
ever  he  had  done,  and  on  the  instant,  gave 
up  all  pretension  to  her  in  favor  of  his  friend  ; 
but  this  the  latter  took  no  advantage  of.  He 
remembered  tin-  last  words  he  had  of  the 
po6r  foundling,  and  the  determination  they 
evinced ;  and  feeling  also,  that,  coidd  he 
succeed  in  getting  her  to  ciiange  her  mind, 
he  could  not  with  any  satislkction  to  himself 
enjoy  the  hajipiness  whereof  his  friend  was 
deprived,  he  resolved  he  would  see  iitr  no 
more.  As  for  her,  it  may  be  suthcient  to 
say,  she  was  where  she  fancied  her.-elf  free 
from  her  vile  persecutors,  yet  was  siie  much 
nigher  to  danger  than  she  imagined. 

Sometime  after  this,  tlie  two  friends  join- 
ed their  commander  and  tutor  in  chivalry, 
the  noble  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  accom- 
panied him  on  his  embassy,  to  condole  with 
the  French  king,  on  the  death  of  his  dear 
brother,  tlie  Duke  of  Anjou.  Tliey  made  a 
most  gallant  figure  at  the  court  of  Fnmce. 
Many  fair  ladies  gave  them  excellent  con- 
vincing proofs  they  were  well  esteemed  of 
them,  the  which  the  elder  received  very  readi- 
ly, and  lacked  n(jt  a  suitable  return  ;  for  liis 
disposition  could  accommodate  itself  to  love 
— as  he  called  it — as  many  as  would  allow 
of  his  passion  ;  but  the  younger  was  not  of 
this  sort.  He  could  give  his  affections  to 
one  only,  and  they  were  unaltenibly  fixed 
on  the  gentle  Mabel ;  and  though  he  receiv- 
ed the  favors  of  the  kind  dames  of  France 
with  the  courtesy  becoming  a  true  knight, 
his  heart  was  wandering  througii  tlie  groves 
of  Charlcote  after  that  exipiisite,  yet  mo^t 
unhappy  creature,  wiio  had  the  sole  claim 
of  its  sovereignty. 

They  wen;  now  strolling  together  in  the 
garden  of  tlie  Queen's  i)alace  at  Wiiitehall, 
whilst  Sir  I'iiilip  was  with  her  Majesty,  and 
divers  of  the  great  lords  and  othcers,  iiold- 
ing  of  a  privy  council,  to  didiberate  on  cer- 
tain im|)ortant  matters  iiU'ecting  the  national 
honor  an<l  safety.  Of  tiiis  council,  methinks 
scime  descri[)tion  would  here  be  in  good  place. 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


199 


In  a  spacious  chamber,  richly  hung  with 
arras,  the  Queen's  Highness  sat  in  robes  of 
state — with  a  small  crown  of  gold  on  her 
head — on  a  raised  throne  covered  with  rich 
carving  and  embroidery.  One  arm  rested 
on  the  arm  of  the  seat,  with  her  jewelled 
hand  imbedded  in  a  fair  white  handkerchief, 
very  tine  and  delicately  worked  ;  the  other 
elbow  rested  on  the  other  arm  of  the  chair, 
her  hand  supporting  her  head,  and  her  body 
resting  against  the  back  of  the  seat.  In 
this  position  she  remained  with  a  famous 
gravity  in  her  features,  listening  to  what 
was  advanced  by  each  speaker ;  but  she 
rarely  remained  in  it  long,  for  if  anything 
dropped  that  she  liked  not,  she  would  take 
the  orator  up  with  some  tartness  ;  and  when 
the  speech  met  with  her  views,  she  would 
add  to  it  something  of  her  own,  which  show- 
ed how  much  it  was  to  her  satisfaction. 

Before  her  in  their  robes  of  ofRce  sat  the 
chief  officers  of  the  crowni,  save  only  the 
one  who  might  be  at  that  moment  speaking, 
who  stood  up ;  and  chiefest  of  these  were 
the  Lord  Treasurer  Burleigh,  the  Secretaries 
of  State,  VValshingham  and  Davison,  the 
Earl  of  Leicester,  the  Earl  of  Sussex,  Charles 
Howard  of  Effingham,  the  Lord  High  Admi- 
ral, Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  and  Sir  Philip  Syd- 
ney. The  subject  under  discussion  related 
to  the  state  of  afiairs  in  Flanders,  and  the 
necessity  of  there  keeping  a  powerful  force. 
It  might  be  somewhat  tedious  to  give  the 
speeches  of  the  different  members  of  the 
council.  Suthce  it  to  say,  as  was  usual  the 
case  when  anything  was  to  be  done  that  re- 
quired an  outlay  from  the  treasury,  my  Lord 
Treasurer  strongly  advised  great  caution, 
and  argued,  if  ])eace  could  bo  procured,  even 
at  some  sacrifice,  'twas  infinitely  better  tlian 
the  uncertainties  of  a  war ;  and  in  his  policy 
he  was  seconded  by  the  two  secretaries  and 
Sir  Nicholas  Bacon.  My  Lord  of  Leicester, 
on  the  other  side,  was  for  carrying  on  pre- 
parations in  that  country  worthy  of  Eng- 
land's greatness ;  and  spoke  of  the  important 
results  which  would  follow  by  so  doing.  My 
Lord  of  Susse.K  was  for  a  like  dealing,  only 
he  differed  with  the  last  speaker  as  to  the 
manner  it  should  be  done,  and  that  too  with 
an  honest  bluntness,  that  spoke  more  of  the 
soldier  than  the  courtier.  Whereupon  the 
other  replied,  defending  his  views  with  much 
apparent  calmness  and  courtesy,  which 
brought  a  sharp  rejoinder  from  my  Lord  of 
Sussex  ;  and,  as  was  often  the  case  at  the 
council,  here  would  have  followed  a  very 
angry  disputation,  had  not  her  Highness 
quickly  put  an  end  to  the  di'.ipute  by  rebuk- 
ing them  both.  These  two  powerful  noble- 
men rarely  met  without  having  some  words ; 


,  but  my  Lord  of  Leicester,  by  a  famous  com- 
mand of  temper,  always  made  it  appear  he 
was  in  no  way  blameable ;  and  my  Lord  of 
Sussex,  who  was  usually  rash  enough  to 
express  what  he  thought,  and  manifestly 
thought  no  good  of  his  opponent,  was  by 
many  looked  upon  as  tiie  one  in  fault. 

Tlie  other  commanders  there  advocated 
the  views  of  the  Queen's  favorite,  save  only 
Sir  Philip  Sydney,  who  had  not  yet  expres- 
sed his  opinions.  At  this  her  Highness,  who 
held  him  in  high  esteem,  commanded  him  to 
what  he  thougTit  would  be  best  in  the  handl- 
ing of  such  a  business,  upon  which  he  gave 
a  most  eloquent  and  elaborate  view  of  the 
present  state  of  Europe,  particularly  dwel- 
ling on  the  hostile  designs  of  the  King  of 
Spain  upon  this  country,  as  evinced  in  the 
immense  warlike  preparations  he  was  mak- 
ing in  all  parts  of  his  dominions  ;  and  show- 
ing in  tlie  clearest  light  what  gain  would 
accrue  to  England,  by  conducting  her  ope 
rations  in  Flanders  with  sufficient  means 
and  a  proper  spirit.  It  is  utterly  impossible 
to  convey  anything  like  unto  an  adequate 
idea  of  this  notable  speech ;  but  it  was  put 
forward  witli  amazing  fineness  of  rhetoric, 
and  with  such  excellence  of  language,  that 
it  was  clear  any  who  had  the  slightest  com- 
prehension of  the  matter,  must  be  convinced 
of  the  properness  of  what  Sir  Philip  had  ad- 
vanced. 

Then  Queen  Elizabeth  spoke  at  some 
length,  expressing  how  naturally  averse  she 
was  to  any  proceedings  likely  to  give  hurt 
to  her  good  subjects  ;  but  as  war  was  forced 
upon  her  for  the  protection  of  the  kingdom 
from  Popish  snares,  and  that  to  fight  abroad 
w'as  better  for  the  people  than  to  fight  at 
home,  it  must  needs  be  she  could  do  no 
other  than  assist  those  who  were  combatting 
against  her  worst  enemies,  and  so  endeavor 
to  keep  the  war  from  her  own  doors.  Her 
speech  was  very  spirited  and  full  of  sage 
quotations  from  Latin  and  other  authors, 
to  sliow  her  justice  somewhat — to  show  her 
learning  somewhat  more.  The  end  was, 
that  she  not  only  adopted  the  views  of  Sir 
Philip  Sydney,  but  gave  him  the  command 
of  some  forces  that  were  to  be  sent  into 
Flanders,  to  disembark  at  Flushing,  of  which 
place  she  appointed  him  governor.  Other 
things  were  also  to  be  done,  but  as  these  do 
not  much  affect  our  story,  methinks  there 
shall  be  no  need  of  the  relation.  After  this 
the  council  broke  up,  and  Sir  Philip  returned 
on  horseback  with  tlie  two  young  knights  to 
his  own  dwelling. 

Shortly  after,  the  three  companions  in 
arms  joined  the  Countess  of  Pembroke  in 
the  library,  a  fair  chamber  well  stocked  with 


200 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


all  manner  of  books,  especially  of  romances 
and  poems  both  Englisli  and  foreign.  The 
countess  seemed  intent  on  a  large  manu- 
script ;  but  this  she  put  on  one  side  at  tlic 
entrance  of  her  brotlier  and  his  friends, 
whom  she  welcomed  very  gladly.  Presently 
they  fell  to  cunver.sing  as  was  their  wont 
on  such  topics  as  were  of  the  most  intellec- 
tual character,  for  it  was  a  custom  with  this 
truly  i'amous  woman  to  endeavor  as  much 
as  possible  to  draw  out  the  minds  of  her 
associates,  and  where  she  found  them  defici- 
ent, to  show  them  glimpses  of  the  know- 
ledge they  wanted  in  its  most  delightful  as- 
pect, and  give  them  a  zest  to  acquire  it 
more  fully.  This  made  her  so  much  the 
admiration  of  the  learned  of  her  time.  In 
truth  I  have  some  reason  for  thinking  she 
diffused  the  spirit  of  intelligence  more  widely 
by  the  fascinations  of  her  eloquence,  than  did 
one  half  the  colleges  in  the  kingdom  with 
all  their  notable  efforts  at  teaching.  A 
familiarity  with  the  best  classic  writers  was 
then  the  fashion — perchance  set  by  her  high- 
ness, who  was  no  contemptible  scholar — and 
to  this  there  was  frequently  joined  consider- 
able knowledge  of  the  Italian  poets  and  the 
French  romances.  But  with  the  countess, 
and  with  her  equally  gifted  brother,  the  fashi- 
on made  itself  apparent,  arrayed  in  those 
graces  of  humanity,  vt'hich  might  make  it 
most  enchanting, — and  to  them  Bocked  such 
scholars  as  wished  to  be  tliought  of  the 
fashion,  and  those  more  fashionable  sort  of 
persons  who  sought  to  be  regarded  as  schol- 
ars. Tlie  two  young  knights  were  among 
the  very  sincerest  admirers  of  the  Countess 
of  Pembroke  : — but  Hir  Valentine  regarded 
her  with  an  enthusiastic  reverence,  which 
exceeded  even  the  feeling  of  the  same  kind 
with  which  he  looked  on  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
and  few  of  their  numerous  circle  of  friends 
were  so  well  esteemed  of  these  illustrious 
persons  as  were  those  gallant  gentlemen. 

"I have  had  notable  rare  company, brother, 
since  the  morning,"  said  the  countess. 

"  Truly,  I  cannot  see  how  it  could  well  be 
otherwise,"  answered  Sir  Reginald,  with  a 
very  ready  courtesy.  "  For  even  were  you 
left  alone,  you  must  needs  be  in  such  excel- 
lent company  as  can  nowhere  else  be  met 
with." 

"  I'  faith.  Sir  Reginald,  methinks  you  are 
taking  a  leaf  from  the  book  of  my  kinsman, 
Leicester,"  observed  my  Lady  Pembroke,with 
an  exquisite  smile. 

"  Nay,  I  think  he  hath  been  takinga  lesson 
from  the  courtly  Sir  Christopher  llatton," 
observed  her  brother  with  a  laugh. 

"By  this  hand!"  exclaimed  the  young 
knight  earnestly,   "  the  last  lesson  1  took 


of  any  man  was  from  a  better  master  than 

either." 

"  And  who  might  that  be  ?"  inquired  Sir 
Philip.  "  For  surely  lie  must  be  exceeding 
worthy — my  kinsman  being  a  very  noble 
gentleman,  and  Sir  Ciiristopher,  though  a 
very  courtier,  is  not  witliout  some  good 
qualities." 

"  I  doubt  not  I  could  make  a  shrewd  guess 
at  this  right  famous  master  of  yours  V  said 
the  countess,  with  an  apj)roving  glance. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  one  who  knoweth  his 
excellence  so  thoroughly,  could  name  any 
other,"  replied  the  knight. 

"  Let  us  have  his  title,  and  quickly,  Sir 
Reginald,"  cried  Sir  Phihp.  "  For  my  me- 
mory is  at  fault." 

"  Assuredly  it  is  one  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
well  known  of  all  men  to  be  tlic  best  master 
of  knights  that  can  be  met  with  in  this  our 
age,"  replied  Sir  Reginald. 

"  And  with  all  proper  pride  I  do  acknow- 
ledge myself  also  to  have  profited  by  his 
right  admirable  lessons,"  added  Sir  Valen- 
tine, with  a  warmer  enthusiasm. 

"  Well,  altliough,  as  I  take  it,  you  do  over- 
rate the  master  hugely,"  replied  the  object 
of  their  eulogium,  but  not  without  a  sensible 
satisfaction  at  its  thorough  honesty,  "  I  must 
say  this — I  would  every  master  were  as  ho- 
norably off  for  pupils.  But  who  were  of  your 
company  this  morning,  my  dear  sister  ?"  in- 
quired he,  seeming  anxious,  as  great  minds 
ever  are,  by  shifting  of  the  conversation,  to 
avoid  his  own  praises. 

"  Truly,  I  have  had  so  many,  I  scarce  can 
remember  one  half  of  them,"  replied  his  ac- 
complished relative.  "  First  there  came  the 
meiTy  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  to  intro- 
duce to  me  a  certain  learned  scholar  of  his 
acquaintance,  who  was  exceeding  anxious 
to  be  known  to  me,  with  whom  1  had  much 
choice  discourse,  made  more  pleasant  by 
some  droll  sayings  of  my  Lord  Bishop." 

"  Methinks  Dr.  Still  is  somewhat  of  too 
jesting  a  nature  for  a  grave  prelate,"  ob- 
served her  brother,  good-humoredly.  "  His 
'  Gammar  Gurton's  Needle,'  smacketh  very 
little  of  tiie  church,  and  his  talk  hath  just  as 
much  of  the  sermon." 

"  My  next  comer  was  a  certain  Master 
John  Lily,"  continued  the  countess.  ''  He 
hath  brought  me  a  play  of  his,  entitled  '  Alex- 
ander and  Campespe,'  whicli  though  I  fmd 
to  lack  something  in  jilot  and  character,  is 
not  without  some  lair  signs  of  merit." 

"  All,  Master  Lily,  I  know  liim  well," 
said  Sir  Philip.  "  lie  hath  left  the  college 
for  the  play-house,  but  I  doubt  his  great  fit- 
ness tor  either.  He  hatii  Intely  sought  to 
set  himself  uji  as  Master  Grammtirian,  to 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


201 


teach  us  a  new  style  of  English,  but  surely 
nothing  so  strained  and  unnatural  was  ever 

heard  of!" 

"  Then  I  had  with  me  the  famous  author 
of  Jeronimo,"  added  his  sister. 

"  Ay,  Master  Kyd  hath  got  himself  into 
niarvelloiis  repute,"  observed  the  other. 
"  He  hath  a  most  moving  skill  in  the  compo- 
sition of  his  plays.  His  blank  verse  is  ex- 
ceeding spirited,  and  not  without  a  proper 
toLicli  of  true  poetry — nevertheless,  he  pos- 
sesseth  many  faults  of  extravagance,  it 
would  be  advisable  in  him  to  eschew." 

"  After  him  I  had  the  knight  of  the 
smirched  mantle." 

"  Ha !  my  very  excellent  good  friend  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Philip,  with 
much  earnestness  and  some  pleasantry. 
'■  By  this  light  his  throwing  his  fine  cloak 
into  the  puddle,  hath  put  his  acquaintance 
on  so  fair  a  footing  with  her  highness,  he  is 
like  to  make  a  gallant  stand  at  court.  But  in 
justice  I  must  acknowledge  he  is  a  truly 
valiant  young  soldier,  and  liath  in  him  the 
best  gifts  of  the  scholar  and  the  gentleman 
to  an  extent  greater  than  that  of  any  of 
whom  I  have  knowledge." 

'•  At  least  so  he  hath  seemed  to  me,"  said 
the  Lady  Pembroke,  and  then  the  two  knights 
added  their  testimony  of  his  worthiness,  for 
he  was  of  their  particular  approved  friends 
— but  more  of  his  truly  noble  character  anon 
gentle  reader. 

"  After  these  there  came  persons  of  all 
kinds,"  continued  the  Countess  of  Pembroke. 
•■  I  was  like  unto  a  besieged  city  sore 
pressed.  Hither  came  gallants  to  idlj  their 
>iine — poets  to  read  to  me  their  verses — 
play  writers  to  bespeak  my  presence  at  the 
play-house  to  see  their  play — booksellers  to 
offer  me  the  very  newest  works  they  liad 
published,  hoping  for  my  commendation, — 
and  many  poor  scholars  seeking  to  be  au- 
thors, who  required  only  my  poor  influence, 
at  least  so  they  believed,  as  a  stepping  stone 
to  fame.  I  did  my  best  for  all — and  all  ap- 
peared in  excellent  content  with  their  visit." 

After  this  the  subject  of  their  converse 
turned  uponSi  certain  work  recently  written 
by  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  since  well  known  to 
every  reader  as  the  right  famous  Arcadia. 

"  Nay,  dear  brother,  but  the  merit  cannot 
be  denied,"  exclaimed  his  fair  relative,  after 
the  author  had  expressed  a  humble  opinion 
of  it.  '•  I  will  not  hear  of  your  speaking 
of  it  slightly.  It  is  a  work  just  as  I  should 
have  expected  from  you — a  combination  of 
chivalry  and  scholarship  put  into  the  most 
delectable  apparelling." 

"  You  must  needs  be  too  partial  a  judge  to 
pass  an  honest  sentence  in  this  case,  sweet 


sister,"  said  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  good  humor- 
edly. 

"  That  I  can  in  no  way  allow,"  cried  Sir 
Reginald.  "  That  my  Liady  Pembroke  is  a 
good  judge,  and  a  fair  judge,  methinks  would 
be  stoutly  maintained  by  every  one  who 
hath  the  honor  of  her  acquaintance ;  not 
only  because  she  is  in  herself  peculiarly 
good  and  fair,  but  because  her  opinions  par- 
take so  largely  of  the  like  qualities  ;  and 
though  she  cannot  help  regarding  the  writer 
of  so  notable  a  work  with  considerable  par- 
tiality, because  of  his  standing  in  such  near 
relationship  to  her,  it  doth  not  follow  she 
cannot  properly  appreciate  its  excellences. 
Indeed  I  am  apt  to  think  she  would  look 
more  closely  into  the  nature  of  any  produc- 
tion from  such  a  source,  and  therefore  known 
its  quality  and  character  better  than  could 
any  other." 

"  Surely  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  this," 
added  Sir  Valentine,  more  earnestly.  "  Even 
were  my  Lady  Pembroke  less  gifted  than 
she  is,  it  is  scarcely  possible  her  love  for  the 
writer  could  mislead  her  in  her  judgment  of 
the  book ;  for  as  all  that  most  perfect  wit 
could  do  would  be  to  praise,  her  affections 
are  surely  not  likely  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
so  appropriate  a  duty.  But  surely,  of  all 
persons  my  lady  ought  to  be  the  best  quali- 
fied to  be  a  judge  in  such  case,  else  that  no- 
bleness of  nature  so  many  have  found,  can 
be  but  of  small  advantage  to  her." 

"  O'  my  word,  you  are  all  alike  !"  ex- 
claimed Sir  Philip,  seeking  to  turn  off  the 
question  as  pleasantly  as  he  could ;  then 
taking  up  a  book  which  lay  on  the  table  be- 
fore him,  he  added,  "  Want  you  now,  a  book 
deserving  of  your  warmest  encomium,  here  is 
one.  It  is  no  other  than  '  The  Shepherd's 
Calendar,'  written  by  my  esteemed  friend 
Master  Edmund  Spenser,  who  hath  done  me 
the  honor  of  its  dedication.  It  is  a  sort  of 
rustic  poem,  or  series  of  eclogues,  wherein 
the  poet,  in  the  feigned  name  of  Colin,  ex- 
presseth  very  movingly  his  infinite  griefs 
caused  by  the  treachery  of  a  false  mistress, 
to  whom  he  hath  given  the  title  of  Rosa- 
hnde." 

"  I  am  apt  to  think  this  poem  of  Master 
Spenser's  is  not  altogether  a  fiction,"  ob- 
served the  countess.  "  There  is  a  heartiness 
in  it,  a  truth  and  vividness,  which  never 
come  of  the  imagination  alone." 

"  You  are  right,"  replied  her  brother.  "  I 
heard  of  Doctor  Gabriel  Harvey,  to  whom  I 
am  indebted  for  my  introduction  to  the  poet, 
that  he  had  formed  a  deep  attachment  to  some 
female,  who,  after  seeking,  by  all  manner  of 
artifices,  to  ensnare  his  affections,  when  she 
found  they  were  hers  beyond  recall,  treated 


202 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


him  with  unexampled  perfidy,  and  soon  after 
married  some  obscure  person — doubtless  as 
worthless  as  herself.  The  general  crj'  on 
hearing  of  such  instances  is, '  a  good  rid- 
dance :'  and  tliis  may  be  ti'ue  enough  to  a 
certain  extent ;  but  men  of  Master  Spenser's 
stamp,  when  they  do  love,  do  so  entwine  the 
filaments  of  their  hearts  with  the  beloved 
object,  that  any  disunion  is  to  them  the  ter- 
riblest  laceration  that  can  be  imagined,  and 
leaveth  a  wound  which  afflicteth  them  with 
a  continual  agony." 

"  Of  aM  men  living,  such  as  are  of  the 
highest  imaginations  are  most  likely  to  meet 
with  such  a  fate,"  said  his  gifted  sister. 
"  None  do  so  readily  become  the  prey  of  an 
artful  woman — for  their  love  of  the  pure  and 
beautiful  which  is  the  powerfullest  impulse 
of  their  natures,  leadeth  them  to  put  their 
faith,  and  heart,  and  soul,  in  fair  appear- 
ances; and  when  a  woman,  under  such 
guise,  showeth  signs  of  being  favorably  dis- 
posed to  them,  they  enrich  her  with  their 
sweetest  thoughts  and  sympathies,  and  look 
to  her,  and  to  her  alone,  for  the  realization 
of  their  happiness.  I  doubt  not,  as  it  gen- 
erally happens  in  such  a  case,  the  original 
of  Master  Spenser's  Rosalinde  was  an  ob- 
scure person,  who,  assuming  the  qualities 
with  which  such  a  disposition  as  that  of  her 
gifted  lover,  is  most  apt  to  be  taken,  was 
honored  witli  his  regard  ;  and  then,  merely 
out  of  selfish  vanity  to  possess  so  proud  a 
gallant,  she  made  his  confiding  nature 
believe  she  truly  loved  him,  till  she  had 
thoroughly  enslaved  his  feelings,  and  forced 
his  adoration  to  be  subservient  to  advance 
sufficiently  her  own  pride.  I  regret  to  say 
such  women  are  by  no  means  rare.  They 
are  of  the  thoroughly  heartless,  who  reck- 
lessly enter  into  a  mischief  for  which  they 
can  never  render  adequate  compensation, 
careless  of  ought  save  the  gratification  of 
their  vanity.  'Tis  lamentable  that  such 
base  idols  should  receive  such  precious  sac- 
rifice." 

Both  Sir  Valentine  and  Sir  Reginald, 
with  their  acccustomed  gallantry,  were  for 
asserting  that  women  so  treacherously  dis- 
posed were  not  to  be  found  ;  but  the  coun- 
tess would  not  allow  of  statements  so  flatter- 
ing. She  honored  them  for  their  opinion  ; 
but  her  own  deeper  knowledge  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  honesty  of  heart,  made  her  refuse 
it  as  erroneous. 

"  It  matters  not,"  observed  her  brother, 
interrupting  the  disputation.  "  There  are 
spots  on  liie  sun,  and  if  that  we  meet  with 
similar  blemishes  in  that  wonderful  fair  lu- 
minary, woman,  we  ought  to  remember 
how  many  are  her  admirable  qualities,  and 


how  hapless  would  be  our  case  without  her 
shining  light  to  warm  and  illumine  our 
world." 

"  I  would  grant  all  that  very  gladly,"  re- 
plied the  countess ;  "  and  right  proud  am  I 
to  hear  my  sex  so  considered.  But  this 
altereth  not  the  case ;  there  are,  unfortu- 
nately, women  of  the  sort  I  have  alluded  to  ; 
and,  be  they  few  or  many,  the  evil  they  do  is 
out  of  any  calculation  ;  for  they  single  out 
for  their  victims  the  truest  and  noblest  na- 
tures ;  and  the  mischief  endeth  not  with 
them,  for  the  misery  of  such  must  needs  af- 
fect the  wide  circle  who  take  in  them  the 
interest  they  deserve.  In  the  particular  in- 
stance of  Master  Spenser,  I  feel  more  moved 
than  perchance  I  otherwise  might  be,  know- 
ing, as  I  do  his  good  qualities  so  intimately. 
He  is  the  gentlest  creature  I  ever  met,  and 
a  very  child  in  simplicity  and  affectionate- 
ness — thoroughly  ingenious,  unobtrusive,  un- 
offending, kind,  and  grateful.  Gifted,  too, 
as  he  is,  with  the  highest  powers  of  mind,  it 
seemeth  a  marvel  to  me  he  should  be  other- 
wise looked  on  by  any  woman  save  with  ad- 
miration and  homage." 

"  The  worst  feature  in  the  case  is  the  in- 
gratitude of  these  false  Rosalindes,"  added 
Sir  Philip.  "  The  poet  honoreth  such  a 
woman  by  attiring  her  in  the  exquisite  fair 
livery  of  his  genius,  to  the  complete  hiding 
of  her  natural  poor  apparelling  ;  and  then 
thus  admirably  garmented,  she  quitteth  him 
to  whom  she  is  so  greatly  indebted,  and,  by 
means  of  his  gifts,  palmeth  her  worthless- 
ness  upon  some  other." 

"  Now  here  is  most  excellent  evidence  of 
the  noble  qualities  of  our  esteemed  friend," 
said  his  sister,  putting  her  hand  upon  the 
manuscript  before  her.  ''  It  is  the  first  part 
of  a  great  poem  in  heroical  verse,  wherein 
he  intendeth  to  represent  all  the  moral  vir- 
tues, assigning  to  each  a  knight,  in  whose 
conduct  the  operations  of  that  virtue,  where- 
of he  is  the  acknowledged  |)rotector,  are  to 
be  expressed,  and  by  whom  the  vices  and 
unruly  appetites,  that  are  opposed  to  it,  are 
to  be  overthrown.  Truly,  a  ii^ost  compre- 
hensive design  ;  but  the  surprising  richness 
of  the  imagery — the  purely  imaginative  char- 
acter of  the  language — the  high  and  chival- 
rous feeling  which  pervades  every  part — 
and  the  perfectly  original  character  of  each 
conception,  as  far  as  1  have  read  of  it — are 
equally  manifest." 

"  Truly,  '  The  Fairy  Queen,'  promiseth  to 
be  a  work  of  lasting  fame,"  added  Sir  I'hilip. 
"  From  the  specimen  entrusted  to  me,  I  hes- 
itate not  in  saying,  it  cannot  help  proving  to 
be  a  mine  of  the  very  richest  ore." 
1     "  But  what  most  deserveth  our  eulogium 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


203 


s  the  purifying  and  ennobling  tendency  of 
this  poem,"  continued  the  countess.  "  The 
object  appeareth  to  be  to  exalt  humanity, 
and  show  to  vvhat  heights  it  can  climb  ; 
that  those  who  may  be  ambitious  of  great- 
ness, shall  have  proper  guidance  to  the  ele- 
vation they  aim  at.  Witli  this  idea  in  view, 
the  poet  bringeth  before  the  reader,  man  in 
all  his  nobleness,  and  woman  in  all  her  pu- 
rity— everything  that  can  make  knighthood 
appear  in  such  chivalrous  character,  as  must 
be  most  worthy  of  female  adoration  ;  and  all 
that  can  give  to  feminine  beauty  that  perfec- 
tion, which  is  the  truest  excitement  of 
knightly  achievements." 

"  Surely  Master  Spenser  hath  earned  for 
himself  the  gratitude  of  every  knight  in 
Christendom  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Reginald. 

"  Ay,  that  has  he,"  added  Sir  Valentine, 
with  a  like  earnestness.  "  Indeed  I  know 
not  how  a  great  mind,  such  as  his  must 
needs  be,  could  have  found  employment  so 
profitable  to  virtuous  feeling  and  honorable 
conduct."  At  this  moment,  the  conversation 
was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a 
serving  man,  announcing  the  name  of  Mas- 
ter Spenser,  and  presently  there  entered  a 
man  of  handsome  mild  features,  somewhat 
touched  by  the  spirit  of  melancholy,  but  not 
sufficiently  so  to  render  their  gravity  un- 
pleasing.  His  eyes  were  clear,  and  beam- 
ing with  the  gentlest  expressions ;  and  his 
beard  short,  and  rounded  under  the  chin. 
He  wore  a  suit  of  a  sober  cut,  with  a  falling 
band  round  his  neck,  cut  into  points.  In 
figure  he  was  somewhat  slim,  and  in  beha- 
vior of  a  graceful  courtesy.  All  rose  to 
welcome  him  at  his  approach,  and  though 
the  greeting  of  the  others  was  exceedingly 
hearty,  there  was  in  that  of  the  countess  the 
tenderness  of  a  sister.  He  received  these 
tokens  of  their  good-will  with  a  modesty  of 
demeanor,  that  bespoke  the  natural  retiring- 
ness  of  his  disposition. 

The  conversation  soon  returned  to  its 
former  subject — the  writings  of  Master 
Spenser.  Sir  Philip  Sydney  mingling  with 
his  praises  some  show  of  criticism  ;  but  his 
gifted  sister  was  evidently  in  no  mood  for 
playing  of  the  critic,  for  she  spoke  most  elo- 
quently in  their  commendation.  The  poet 
listened  with  looks  of  delight  and  gratitude, 
attending  to  the  opinions  they  expressed  with 
the  deepest  respect,  knowing  what  oracles 
his  judges  were,  and  seeming  to  marvel  any- 
thing of  his  invention  could  be  so  well 
thought  of. 

"  I  am  greatly  bound  to  you  for  such  hon- 
orable mention  of  my  poor  performance," 
observed  he,  with  an  impressive  sincerity  ; 
"  1  have  merely  trod  in  the  footsteps,  and, 


as  must  needs  be,  at  a  humble  distance  of 
those  illustrious  masters  of  the  epic  art,  Ho- 
mer, Virgil,  Ariosto,  Dante  and  Tasso ;  and 
I  will  strive  all  I  may  to  continue  in  so  glo- 
rious a  path.  But  I  am  come  here  with  the 
hope  of  seeing  justice  done  to  a  poet,  who, 
as  far  as  I  can  judge  of  the  example  of  his 
powers  that  hath  accidentally  fallen  into  my 
hands,  is  like  to  overtop  the  ablest  writers  of 
his  age." 

This  speech  created  exceeding  surprise  in 
those  around  him,  and  the  speaker  was  quick- 
ly asked  to  what  he  alluded ;  whereupon  he 
continued — 

"  I  had  just  parted  with  my  gallant  and 
noble-hearted  true  friend.  Sir  Walter  Ra- 
leigh, about  an  hour  since,  when,  as  I  was 
passing  by  Dowgate,  my  attention  was  forc- 
ibly attracted  by  a  decent-looking  young 
countryman,  struggling  in  the  rude  grasp  of 
divers  constables,  who  were  hurrying  him 
off  to  prison,  for  what  offence  I  know  not. 
Whilst  observing  him,  I  noticed  a  paper  fall 
from  his  doublet,  which  all  else  about  him 
were  too  busy  with  their  prisoner  to  regard; 
I  presently  stepped  forward  and  picked  it  up. 
I  found  it  to  be  a  poem,  the  which,  with  your 
gracious  permission,  I  would  gladly  read  to 
you." 

Permission  being  very  readily  granted, — 
for  every  one  appeared  singularly  curious 
on  so  strange  a  matter, — Master  Spenser 
produced  a  paper,  from  which  he  read  what 
is  here  set  down  : — 

"  THE  POET  OWNETH  HIS  SUBMISSION  TO   THE 
SOVEREIGN  BEAUTY." 

"  Lo  !  from  the  feathery  foam  I  see  thee  rise 

'Scaped  from  the  arms  of  th'  enamored  billow, 
A  thousand  balmy  airs  stoop  from  the  skies, 

And  round  about  thee  hold  their  pliant  pillow ; 

The  beach  is  gained — the  oak,  the  elm,  the 
willow, 
With  all  their  ancient  heraldry  appear. 

Owning  a  brighter  sunshine  in  thine  eyes, 
Streams  laugh  beneath  thy  looks  ;  and  far  and 

near, 
Doth  the  wliole  landscape  thy  rich  Uvery  wear. 

"  First-born  of  Nature  !     Queen  of  Life  and 
Light ; 
Mother  of  Love  !  (whose  power  supports  thy 
being) 
Whose  flames  the  quenchless  lamps  of  night. 
And  flasheth  where  morn's  burning  car  is 

fleeing, 
Hither   to    me  !     My  fettered   thoughts   be 
freeing  ; 
And,  as  the  obedient  slaves  their  mistress  own. 

With  thy  divine  apparel  make  them  bright. 
That  men  may  see  they're  thine,  and  thine  alone. 
And  where  they  go  they  may  thy  might  make 
known. 


204 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  I  call  thee  !     I,  thy  fervent  worshipper, 
Whom  thou  hast  gazed  on  from  thy  secret 
places, 
Seeking  to  be  thy  holy  minister  ; 

Enclasp  my  spirit  in  thy  fond  embraces ! 
Delight   each    feeling   with    thy  gladd'ning 
graces  ! 
Teach  every  sympathy  thy  gentle  lore  I 
Be  for  my  hopes  a  ready  messenger  ; 
And  all  that's  best  of  me  instruct  to  soar,  j 

Where  thou  hast  garnered  thy  most  precious  , 
store. 

"  Ere  I  knew  thee  I  was  like  some  deep  nook     j 
O'ergrown  with  gnarled   trunks  and  weeds 
entangled,  I 

Where  smiling  nature  never  deigned  to  look,     ! 
And  wind  and  water  wrestled  as  they  wran- 
gled ; 
I  met  thy  gaze  ; — then  all  my  verdure  span- 
gled 
With  countless  myriads  of  refreshing  dews  ; 

The  sullen  flood  turned  to  a  sparkling  brook, 
And  the  hushed  wind  no  more  would  show  his 

thews, 
Where  virgin  buds  betrayed  their  blushing  hues. 

"  Then  was  I  filled  with  store  of  sunny  gleams, 
As  some  rich  pattern  skilful  hands  are  weav- 
ing. 

All  shot  aliout  in  threads  with  golden  beams  ; 
Or  ears  of  grain  the  harvest  lord  is  sheaving, 
Ere  the  great  ripener  his  hot  couch  is  leaving. 

And  such  hath  been  the  magic  of  thy  glance, 
A  change  fell   o'er  my  thoughts,  my  hopes, 
iny  dreams. 

And  I  became,  through  my  allegiance, 

A  wilderness  turned  to  a  fair  pleasance. 

"  I  saw  thee  when  thy  mother  Nature  held 

Thee  in  her  lap  before  my  marvelling  glances. 
When  breeze   and    billow   their  rough    music 
quelled 
To  soothing  lullabies  and  cheerful  dances. 
When  all  earth's  chivalry  of  blades  and  lances 
Leaped  into  motion  over  hill  and  dale, 

And  blooming  youth  and  patriarchal  eld 
On  bow'rs  and  banks,  the  rock,  the  wood,  the 

vale. 
Donned  in  thy  name   their  brightest   coat    of 
mail ! 

"  I  knew  thee  by  the  soul-enthralling  good 
That  threw  its  rosy  halo  round  thy  dwelling. 

By  banishment  from  thy  pure  neighborhood 
Of  things  that  show  no  token  of  excelling. 
By  tuneful  praises,  every  voice  was  telling. 

Of  ]iliirued  courtier  grateful  for  thy  smile  ; 
And  the  sweet  incense,  not  to  be  withstood. 

Shed  by  a  thousand  censers  all  that  while 

Swung  to  and  fro  beneath  each  forest  aisle. 

"  I  loved  thee  for  the  kind  and  open  hand 

Thou  hast  at  all  times  held  out  at  my  greeting. 
For  lessons  of  the  true,  the  rare,  the  grand. 


That  made  my  entertainment  at  our  meeting; 

For  bounteous  largess  ever  more  repeating. 
Of  precious  favors  delicately  choice  ; 

And  more  than  all  for  sky,  and  sea,  and  land. 
Which,  in  thy  braveries,  thou  madest  rejoice 
With  graceful  form  and  music-breathing  voice. 

"  Seen,  knowm,  and  loved  of  me  so  long  and 
well, 
Methinks  I  hold  such  fond  familiar  footing. 
That  shouldst  thou  slumber  in  some  moss-grown 
cell. 
Or  ruin  hoar  where  reverend  owls  are  hooting, 
Whilst  time  its  strong  foundations  is  uproot- 
ing, 
Unto  thy  private  chamber  I  might  hie. 

On  tiptoe,  breathless,  lest  I  break  the  spell 
Which  holds  thine  eyelids  with  so  firm  a  tie, 
And  couched  beside  thee  lovingly  might  lie. 

"  Therefore  I  call  thee  now,  sweet  lady,  mine. 
Come  forth,  my  queen,  from  thy  most  glorious 
palace  I 
Dear  Priestess,  leave  thy  star-enamelled  shrine 
That  boasts  its  river  font,  and  fioral  chalice. 
To  the  storm's  rage  or  cloud's  most  gloomy 
malice. 
And  in  my  mind  make  thou  thy  present  bower  ; 
Shed  there    thy   warmest,  brightest,  purest 
shine. 
And  as  'tis  nurtured  by  the  genial  power, 
Each  fresh  idea  shall  show  a  rarer  fiower. 

"  As  'tis  of  thee  that  I  essay  to  sing. 

On  me  let  thy  immortal  worth  be  grafted, 
My  nature  then  thy  precious  fruit  would  bring 

Like  odors  on  the  summer  zephyrs  wafted  ; 

Or  some  rude  weapon  gemmed  and  golden- 
hafted, 
To  be  a  sign  unto  an  after  age. 

That   I  had  been  thy  knight,  thy  lord,  thy 
king. 
Thy  scholar,  by  thy  teaching  rendered  sage, 
Thy  slave,  whose  labor  brought  a  goodly  wage. 

"  Ah  me  !  perchance  thou  art  not  so  inclined 

And  think'st  it  better  to  be  gaily  straying. 
Giving  thy  trc^^ses  to  the  wanton  wind 

As  thou  dost  wander  up  and  down  a  maying  ; 

Or  art  by  clearest  waters  idly  straying, 
Lost  in  delight  of  thine  own  loveliness. 

Mirrored  within  the  wave — and  there  dost 
bind 
A  delicate  garland  o'er  each  dainty  tress, 
And  all   thy  charms  doth  tire   in   such  brave 
dress. 

"  Well,  if 'tis  so  indeed — it  needs  must  be, 

I  cannot  give  thee  any  such  adorning. 
Still  shall  all  natural  things  witness  for  me 
In  courts  where  there  hath  never  been  sub- 
orning. 
That  noon  and  twilight  eve,  eve  and  early 
morning, 
Only  to  gain  thy  love  I  cared  to  live  ; 
But  surely  if  'tis  vain  to  hope  for  thee, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


20» 


Thou  canst  thy  highest  power  and  purpose  give 

To  some  betitting  representative  1 

"  And  such  a  one  know  I,  whose  great  desert 

Giveth  her  comeliness  its  noblest  garnish ; 
Her  spirit,  that  makes  envy  fall  inert. 

Gleams  like  a  blade  that  Knows  no  soil  or 
tarnish, 

Or  painting  shining  in  its  freshest  varnish  ; 
Oh  ne'er  hath  been  such  costly  carcanet ! — 

A  truth  that  none  who  live  can  controvert, 
For  in  and  out  all  Stirling  gifts  are  met, 
And  every  gem  of  price  therein  is  set. 

"  Doubtless  so  rare  a  being  hath  obtained 

From  thee  the  title  of  her  rarity  : 
For  from  what  other   source  could  she  have 
gained 

Her  embassy  of  love  and  charity? 

'Twixt  ye  there  is  such  small  disparity, 
I  oft  have  thought  she  was  herself  the  queen, 

Thou  her, — and  near  her  have  remained. 
Paying  that  rev'rence  to  her  shape  and  mien 
I  would  but  give  to  thee  hadst  thou  there  been. 

"  And  long  may  she  such  glorious  office  hold  ! 

And  long  to  me  present  her  fair  credentials 
May  in  each  word  her  embassy  be  told, 

Each  look  convey  the  same  divine  essentials 
Thy  mightiness  alone  hath  meaning  for  : 

Then  with  a  tribute  richer  far  than  gold 
Will  I  do  homage  as  ihy  servitor 
And  ever  honor  thy  embassador. 

"  Truly,  I'll  find  her  lodging  of  the  best. 

All  furnished  in  a  fashion  most  endearing. 
To  be  its  mistress  rather  than  its  guest ; 

And  give  such  gallant  vestment  for  her  wear- 
ing, 

As  shall  the  best  become  her  noble  bearing  ; 
I'll  have  before  her  Fame's  loud  trumpet  sound  ; 

Upon  her  head  I'll  place  a  jewelled  crest : 
And  wheresoe'er  her  footsteps  shall  be  found. 
My  monuments  shall  glorify  the  ground. 

"  And  thus  my  whole  affections  I  subject. 
Whilst  o'er  my  cheek  the  hue  of  life  is  florid, 

To  use  thy  laws,  thy  rule,  thy  dialect, 
Forswear  all  brutal  hate  and  vengeance  horrid. 
From  zone  to  zone,  the  frigid  and  the  torrid 

Whist  of  this  world  I  am  a  denizen  ; 
And  ever  show  the  loyalest  respect 

Where'er  thy  signet  is  apparent,  when 

Thou  seekest  dealings  with  ray  fellow  men." 

A  famotis  marvelling  was  exhibited  by  all 
present,  at  the  reading  of  these  verses,  and 
much  was  said  of  the  unknown  author,  for 
whom  exceeding  interest  had  been  excited  ; 
and,  at  last,  Sir  Philip  Sydney  httrried 
Master  Spenser  away  with  him,  that  they 
might  learn  who  he  was,  and  where  he 
might  be  found,  with  as  little  delay  as  pos- 
sible. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

This  fool  comes  from  the  citizens. 
Nay,  prithee  do  not  frown! 

1  know  him  as  well  as  you 
By  his  livery  gown — 
Of  a  rare  horn-mad  family. 


Anon. 


Tell  Fortune  of  her  blindness, 

Tell  Nature  of  decay, 
Tell  Friendship  of  unkindness 

Tell  Justice  of  delay  ; 
And  if  they  dare  reply. 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

By  dint  of  constant  inquiries  of  carmen, 
pedlars  and  others,  the  youthful  Shakspcare 
found  his  way  to  the  Bankside,  where,  as 
he  had  heard,  stood  the  playhouse  whereof 
the  elder  Burbage  was  manager.  He  en- 
tered London  by  the  Uxbridge  road,  in  a 
strange  wonder  at  the  number  of  persons  he 
met,  as  soon  as  he  had  got  to  the  field  called 
the  Hay-market,  near  Charing,  where  the 
country  people  held  a  market  of  hay  and 
straw,  for  the  convenience  of  the  Londoners. 
There,  the  abundance  of  splendid  mansions 
he  passed,  and  numberless  houses  of  the 
citizens,  the  shops,  the  warehouses,  the 
churches,  the  great  din  of  traffic,  that  soun- 
ded along  the  streets,  of  itinerant  chapmen 
bawling  their  wares — with  the  rolling  of 
carts  and  waggons,  and  the  goodly  caval- 
cade of  nobles  and  gallants  riding  their 
sprightly  palfreys,  astonished  him  exceed- 
ingly, whilst  the  more  closely  he  approached 
the  city,  the  path  became  more  thronged 
with  persons  of  all  kinds  and  conditions,  in 
such  exceeding  variety  of  appearance,  that 
it  seemed  an  endless  puzzle  to  the  young 
traveller  to  guess  their  several  characters 
and  vocations. 

By  the  time  he  arrived  at  the  Globe  play- 
house, he  was  weary  with  hunger  and  walk- 
ing. A  flag  was  flying  at  the  roof,  which 
denoted  that  the  play  had  commenced,  as  he 
learned  from  a  bystander  ;  so  he  thought  it 
would  be  most  advisable  to  wait  till  it  was 
over,  before  he  presented  himself  to  any  of 
his  old  companions  ;  therefore  lie  strolled 
about  the  place  amongst  the  venders  of 
fruit,  and  crowds  of  idlers  that  stood  nigh 
the  building.  As  he  was  noting,  with  his 
accustomed  curiousness,  the  manners  of  the 
sorts  of  persons  in  his  neighborhood,  on  a 
sudden  a  horseman  rode  up,  and  alighting 
beside  him,  cried,  "  Here,  fellow,  hold  my 
horse,  and  I'll  give  thee  a  groat  at  my 
return,"  flung  him  the  bridle  and  quickly 
vanished  into  the  playhouse.  William  Shak&- 


306 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


peare  was  taken  somewhat  by  surprise  at 
this  occurrence,  but  remembering  that  his 
purse  was  penniless,  and  himself  both  tired 
and  hungry,  he  was  weJl  enough  disposed  for 
the  earning  of  any  sum,  even  though  it  came 
of  such  humble  employment  as  the  holding  ol 
a  horse  :  nevertheless,  whilst  he  walked  the 
animal  up  and  down,  his  mind  was  wonder- 
fully busy  in  forming  all  sorts  of  bright  am- 
bitious prospects,  as  completely  at  variance 
with  his  present  poor  shift,  as  any  matter 
could  be. 

Thus  he  employed  himself,  till  the  people 
coming  thronging  out  of  the  doors  of  tlie 
playhouse,  told  him  that  the  play  was  done  ; 
and  presently,  up  comes  the  gallant,  whose 
horse  he  had  in  charge,  gave  him  the  pro- 
mised groat,  and  rode  away ;  but  it  so  hap- 
pened, while  he  was  engaged  with  the  latter, 
two  young  men,  very  fairly  clad,  who  were 
passing  near,  when  they  caught  sight  of  the 
young  Shakspeare  stopped  of  a  sudden,  and 
regarded  him  with  a  very  curious  and  mar- 
velling aspect. 

"  It  must  be  him,  Dick  !"  said  one. 

"  Ay,  marry,  it  is  ;  but  who  bringeth  him 
here,  holding  of  horses,  Tom  ?"  added  the 
other. .  The  object  of  their  attention,  as 
soon  as  he  had  jiarted  with  the  gallant,  was 
for  proceeding  to  the  Globe,  but  he  was  stop- 
ped by  these  two  persons  making  up  to  him, 
whom  he  had  no  great  difficulty  in  recogni- 
zing as  his  old  school-fellows,  Tom  Greene 
and  Dick  Burbage.  Great  was  the  joy  of 
this  meeting  on  both  sides  ;  and  the  young 
traveller  soon  told  what  brought  him  to 
London,  and  his  adventures  on  the  journey, 
even  to  the  holding  of  the  horse,  which  was 
received  by  his  merry  companions  with  some 
interest  and  more  laughing.  The  latter 
seemed  to  be  just  the  same  careless,  free- 
hearted fellows  they  had  been  when  boys  ; 
and,  I  doubt  not,  were  quite  as  ready  to 
pass  oft'  an  ingenious  jest  here  in  London, 
as  ever  they  had  been  in  merry  Stratford. 

"  Where's  thy  father,  Dick  ?"  inquired 
Green. 

"  Methinks,  he  must  now  be  intent  upon 
the  getting  rid  of  his  blackamoor's  face," 
replied  young  Burbage. 

"Come  thou  with  us,  Will,"  said  the 
former  to  the  youthful  Sliakspeare.  "  We 
will  to  Master  Manager  at  once,  and  get 
him  to  give  thee  a  place  in  our  company- - 
amongst  whom  thou  wilt  meet  Hemings  and 
Condell,  thy  once  chosen  associates — then, 
leave  the  rest  to  us,  and  if  Ave  lead  thee  not 
a  right  merry  life,  it  cannot  be  other  than 
thine  own  "fault."  Talking  of  their  old 
pranks,  in  a  famous  humor  at  every  allu- 
sion to  them,  the  three  proceeded  together 


into  the  playhouse,  and  after  passing  throngh 

some  strange  places — as  the  young  traveller 
took  them  to  be, — they  arrived  at  a  door  : — 
William  Shakspeare,  in  famous  spirits  and 
full  of  pleasant  anticipation,  for  all  his  hun- 
ger and  weariness. 

"  What,  ho.  Master  Manager  !"  cried 
Tom  Green,  knocking  loudly  ;  "  Give  us 
entrance,  I  prithee !  1  bring  thee  aid — I 
bring  thee  strength — I  bring  thee  comfort — 
I  bring  thee  a  marvel,  a  prodigy,  a  phaniix, 
— I  bring  thee  present  profit  and  future 
greatness." 

"  Come  in,  a  God's  name,  Tom  !"  replied 
a  voice  from  within,  with  prodigious  ear- 
nestness. The  young  traveller  had  some 
difficulty  in  recognizing  his  old  acquain- 
tance, in  the  smut-faced  personage  half 
unclad  that  was  pulling  off  his  hose,  in  the 
ftieanly  furnished  chamber,  in  which  tlie 
former  now  found  himself. 

"  Heart  o'  me  !"  exclaimed  Greene,  laugh- 
ingly, as  the  manager  at  the  entrance  of  a 
stranger  began  hastily  a  drawing  on  his 
hose  again."  "  Care  not  for  thy  legs  ; 
methinks  they  are  well  enough  for  a  black 
fellow." 

"  Well  enough  !"  echoed  the  manager 
glancing  at  his  limbs  with  a  very  manifest 
pride.  "  Well  enough  for  a  black  fellow, 
saidst  thou  ?  I  tell  thee  what  it  is,  Tom, 
black  fellow  or  white  fellow,  or  even  a 
Greene  fellow,  for  the  matter  of  that,  hath 
never  been  able  to  boast  of  such  handsome 
things  to  stand  on  since  the  world  began." 

"  Bravely  said,  Legs!"  replied  the  other 
in  the  same  merry  humor.  "  But  here  I 
have  brought  with  mo  a  certain  friend  of 
mine  whose  great  merit  I  can  vouch  for, 
who  desireth  to  be  a  player,  and  of  our 
company." 

"  'Tis  Will  Shakspeare,  father,  from 
Stratford,"  added  his  son. 

"  Away  witli  him !"  angrily  cried  the 
elder  Burbage,  to  the  extreme  astonishment 
of  every  one  else.  "  'Slight,  I've  had  enough 
of  Will  Shakspeare  to  last  me  the  rest  of  my 
days." 

"  Wliy,  what  hast  had  of  him,  I  wonder !" 
exclaimed  Greene. 

"  Had,  quotha  !'  replied  the  manager  ;  I've 
had  of  him  what  was  like  to  get  me  a  speedy 
hanging  on  the  highest  tree.  Some  six  years 
since  or  more,  I  met  him,  when,  with  my 
company  about  to  play  at  a  noble  lady's 
mansion  in  the  country,  and  he  got  me  to 
consent  to  his  playing  of  a  part  in  a  new 
play  tliat  I  had  sent  me  to  represent  before 
her  visitors — well,  the  varlet  was  not  con- 
tent with  marring  the  end  on't  by  saying  of 
a  parcel  of  stufl'  instead  of  what  had  been 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


207 


put  down  for  him  ;  but  scarce  an  hour  after 
he  mends  the  matter  by  assisting  of  a  com- 
panion to  run  oft'  with  a  young  damsel  there 
on  a  visit.  It  was  well  for  me  I  showed  my 
prudence  by  affecting  a  perfect  ignorance  of 
the  whole  proceedings,  for  had  it  come  to 
my  lord's  ears  I  had  shared  in  them  in  any 
way,  I  should  have  been  ruined  outright, 
clapped  in  a  prison  and  ordered  for  execu- 
tion without  hope  of  reprieve." 

William  Shakspeare  explained  the  cir- 
cumstance just  alluded  to,  but  the  more  he 
explained  the  more  enraged  seemed  the 
manager,  that  he  should  have  been  put  in 
such  jeopardy  as  he  had  been  to  assist  in  a 
scheme  of  which  he  was  kept  in  entire  igno- 
rance, and  not  even  the  entreaties  of  Greene 
and  his  own  son  could  induce  him  to  alter 
his  resolution  to  have  none  of  Will  Shaks- 
peare for  to  be  of  his  company.  Dick  Bur- 
bage  got  ve.xed  at  this  look,  but  Greene,  con- 
fined not  his  vexedness  to  looks.  He  spoke 
out  warmly  in  behalf  of  his  friend,  and  said 
such  sharp  words  to  the  elder  Burbage  that 
he  grew  choleric,  and  there  would  have  been 
a  complete  falling  out  betwixt  them,  had  not 
the  cause  of  it  interposed,  and  implored 
them  not  to  make  him  an  occasion  for  quar- 
relling. The  young  traveller  left  the  cham- 
ber with  a  much  heavier  heart  than  he  had 
entered  it.  Here  were  all  his  proud  hopes 
overthrown  at  a  blow,  and  he,  faint  with 
hunger,  and  his  long  journey,  without  a 
place  to  lay  his  head  in,  or  ought  for  his 
many  necessities  but  the  solitary  groat  he 
liad  received  from  the  gallant  for  holding  of 
his  horse.  He  had  only  got  a  fev/  steps 
from  the  playhouse  when  he  was  overtaken 
by  Tom  Greene. 

"  Care  not  for  that  old  churl ;"  said  he, 
"  Perchance  thou  wilt  do  as  well  elsewhere ; 
so  keep  up  thy  heart.  Will  ;  and  Dick  and  I 
will  devise  something  for  thy  advantage.  I 
have  now  an  appointment  which  will  take 
me  an  hour  or  so  ;  in  the  meanwhile  speed 
thee  over  London  Bridge,  and  inquire  thy 
way  to  the  house  of  Mistress  Colewort  who 
selleth  simples,  and  herbs,  an  1  such  things, 
at  the  sign  of  the  Phoenix,  in  Bucklersbury 
— there  is  my  lodging  ;  call  for  what  thou 
wilt,  and  make  thyself  at  home  there,  till  I 
come."  The  kind-hearted  player  hurried 
away;  and  his  old  schoolfellow  full  of  grate- 
ful feelings  retraced  his  steps  the  way  he 
had  come.  He  remembered  Bucklersbury, 
having  passed  it  going  from  Cheap  to  Lom- 
bard-Street, tiierefore,  he  never  thought  of 
questioning  any  as  to  his  road,  but  pro- 
ceeded on,  thinking  over  his  heavy  disap- 
pointment so  intently,  he  regarded  nothing 
else.     He  had  passed  London  Bridge,  and 


not  being  very  heedful,  had  taken  a  wrong 
turning  out  Fish  Street  Hill.  He  had  got 
some  distance  along  sundry  winding  nar- 
row streets,  when  all  at  once,  he  was  brought 
to  a  stand  still  by  some  authoritative  voice, 
and  lie  quickly  found  himself  surrounded 
by  persons  in  long  gowns  trimmed  with  fur, 
that  seemed  some  otficers  of  tlie  corporation, 
and  others  who,  by  their  bills  and  ajjparel- 
ling,  he  took  to  be  constables  of  the  watch. 

"  Stand,  fellow,  and  give  an  account  of 
yourself!"  exclaimed  one. 

"  What  brought  thee  here  ?  Whose 
varlet  art  thou  ?"  inquired  another. 

"  An'  he  be  not  a  masterless  man.  Master 
Fleetwood,  I  know  not  one  when  I  see 
him,"  observed  a  third. 

"  A  very  vagrom,  I'll  swear,"  cried  an 
ancient  constable,  poking  his  greybeard  into 
the  young  traveller's  face.  "  1  pray  you, 
Master  Recorder,  to  question  him  of  his 
calling.  I  am  in  huge  suspicion  I  have  had 
in  my  custody  some  score  of  times  already." 

"  What  is  thy  name,  caitiff  ?"  demanded 
he  who  styled  Master  Fleetwood,  in  a  very 
high  and  mighty  sort  of  manner. 

"  First  tell  me,  why  I  am  thus  rudely 
questioned  and  stopped,  my  masters  ?"  said 
the  youthful  Shakspeare,  who  liked  not  being 
so  handled. 

"  Oh,  the  villain  !"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
constables,  in  a  seeming  amazement.  "  Here 
is  monstrous  behaving  to  his  Vv'orship  master 
Recorder,  and  so  many  honorable  aldermen  ! 
Dost  know  no  manners  ?  Wilt  show  no 
respect  of  persons  ?  Here  are  divers  of  the 
worshipful  corporation  going  about  taking 
up  all  manner  of  masterless  men  and  house- 
less vagroms  that  infest  the  city  ;  and  if  thou 
art  one  of  tliem,  thou  art  a  most  graceless 
fellow.  Tell  master  Recorder  thy  name  on 
the  instant,  or  thou  shall  to  Newgate  in  a 
presently." 

"  You  have  no  business  with  me,  or  my 
name  either,"  answered  their  prisoner,  get- 
ting to  be  a  Httle  chafed  at  his  treatment. 

"  Who  is  thy  master,  caitiff,"  inquired  one 
of  the  aldermen. 

"  I  have  none,"  replied  the  youth,  some- 
what proudly. 

"  There,  he  confesses  it,  an'  it  please 
your  worship,"  cried  the  constable.  "  I 
could  have  sworn  he  was  a  masterless  man, 
he  hath  such  a  horrible  vagrom  look." 

"  To  prison  with  him  !"  exclaimed  Master 
Fleetwood,  with  some  asperity.  "  This 
country  gear  of  thine,  I  doubt  not,  is  only 
worn  as  a  blind.  Thou  hast  a  very  dishonest 
visage ;  an  exceeding  cutpurse  sort  of  coun- 
tenance ;  and  1  feel  assured  that  when  thou 


208 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


art  hanged,  there  will  be  at  least  one  rogue 
the  less." 

"  And  I  feel  assured,"  said  William  Shak- 
spearc,  "  that  wlien  thou  departest  this  life — 
no  matter  in  what  fashion — there  will  be  at 
least  one  fool  the  less." 

"  Away  with  him,  for  a  rude  rascal !" 
cried  the  enraged  recorder.  The  aldermen 
made  similar  exclamations,  and  five  or  six 
of  the  watch  so  held  and  hustled  him,  that, 
for  all  his  struggles,  which  were  very  great, 
he  was  presently  dragged  like  a  felon, 
through  the  public  streets  with  no  lack  of 
abuse  and  blows,  till  he  was  safely  lodged  in 
the  prison  of  Newgate.  Here  he  scarcely  had 
opportunity  for  the  noticing  of  anything  till 
he  found  himself  in  a  large  yard,  surrounded 
by  amazing  high  walls,  wherein  there  were 
several  prisoners  of  different  ages,  most  of 
whom  looked  to  be  necessitous  poor  fellows, 
who  had  most  probably  been  driven  into  dis- 
honest courses  by  the  pressure  of  some 
fierce  want ;  but  there  were  others,  whom, 
at  a  glance,  it  was  easy  to  see,  were  down- 
right villains — and  some  few  whose  appear- 
ance bespoke  their  only  crime  to  have  been 
their  want  of  friends. 

Some  were  amusing  themselves  at  foot- 
ball, others  at  bowls — some  at  cards,  others 
at  dice  ;  and  these  were  generally  of  the 
villainous  sort.  Here  and  there  might  be 
seen  one  walking  about  in  very  woeful  coun- 
tenance, who  joined  in  none  of  the  sports  ; 
and  these  were  of  the  friendless.  As  soon 
as  he  had  entered  the  place,  the  young  play- 
er was  surrounded  by  several  of  his  fellow- 
prisoners — some  curious,  some  abusive,  and 
all  apparently  tiiieves  outright,  for  they  pre- 
sently snatched  from  him  whatever  they 
could  lay  a  hand  on,  that  had  been  spared  in 
the  examination  of  the  constables  and  turn- 
keys ;  and  this  they  did  with  such  thorough 
artifice,  he  could  not  see  by  whom  it  was 
done.  However,  when  they  had  discovered 
he  had  nothing  more  they  could  readily  de- 
prive him  of,  or  saw  better  entertainment 
elsewhere,  they  left  him  to  his  own  refiecti- 
ons,  which,  it  may  well  believed,  were  none 
of  the  comfortablest. 

Tired  of  the  noise  and  ribaldry  of  his 
companions — their  fierce  oaths,  and  coarse 
vulgar  manners,  the  young  traveller  took  to 
observing  tliose  who  kept  aloof.  Some  of 
these  appeared  to  be  of  a  much  higher  rank 
than  the  other  ;  and  with  one  he  soon  made 
acquaintance  ;  for  it  was  impossible  for  any 
well-disposed  person  to  behold  the  counten- 
ance of  William  Shakspeare  and  not  feel  in- 
clined to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  him;  and 
from  this  person  he  quickly  learned  the 
names  and  characters  of  most  of  his  fellow- 


prisoners  and  in  return  was  told  how  he 
came  to  be  among  them. 

"  Ah,  worthy  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "you 
have  been  placed  here  by  the  same  meddle- 
some person  as  hath  imprisoned  me — to  wit, 
Master  Recorder  Fleetwood,  who  seeketh 
by  over-business,  to  pass  with  her  highness's 
sage  counsellors,  for  a  famous,  loyal,  and 
notable  zealous  officer.  I  have  been  thrust 
here  merely  because  he  chose  to  suspect  me 
of  the  high  crime  of  being  of  the  Catholic 
faith,  and  of  attending  to  the  rites  and  sol- 
emnities of  such  religion  ;  and  for  no  greater 
offence  than  this,  divers  worthy  gentlemen 
who  have  been  by  him  so  ignominiously 
treated.  Some  sent  to  one  prison — some  to 
another  ;  and  all  punished  with  heavy  fines 
and  grievous  imprisonment." 

"  1  marvel  such  outrage  upon  justice 
should  be  allowed,"  observed  the  youth, 
warmly. 

"  I  grieve  to  say  such  things  are  grown 
too  common  to  make  marvels  of,"  replied 
his  companion.  '•  Perchance  the  Queen  and 
her  chief  ministers  are  not  disposed  to  coun- 
tenance such  pestilent  tyranny  ;  indeed,  I 
question  they  ever  hear  of  it  in  any  way 
like  the  truth  ;  but  such  is  the  unhappy 
state  of  things  in  the  city  in  consequence  of 
the  meddlesomeness  of  this  same  tyrannical 
recorder,  that  for  a  man  to  dare  attend  the 
service  of  the  religion  he  conscientiously 
believeth  to  be  the  true  one,  he  shall  be  ac- 
counted the  worst  of  villains  ;  and  for  one 
that  cometh  to  any  poverty  and  hath  not  a 
friend  in  the  world,  he  is  forthwith  thrust 
into  prison,  to  consort  with  felons  and  the 
vilest  of  characters.  All  this  while,  ahnost 
under  the  very  noses  of  these  zealous  offi- 
cers, are  to  be  found  houses  where  cutpurses 
may  be  met  with  by  scores,  teaching  their 
art  to  young  boys,  and  enjoying  of  their  lU-got 
booty  in  every  manner  of  drunkenness  and 
riotous  infamy,  and  they  are  left  undisturbed 
to  do  as  they  list." 

"  And  how  long,  think  you,  worthy  sir,  us 
poor  victims  of  such  intolerable  wrong,  shall 
be  kept  in  this  horrid  place  ?"  inquired  the 
other. 

"  Truly,  there  is  no  knowing,"  answered 
his  fellow-prisoner.  "  If  you  have  a  friend 
at  court  who  will  take  up  your  cause,  'tis 
like  enough  you  will  soon  get  your  liberty ; 
but  if  you  are  not  so  provided,  there  is  no 
saying  of  what  lengtii  may  be  your  imprison- 
ment." 

This  was  but  sorrj'  consolation  for  the 
young  traveller,  and  it  left  him  nothing  but 
an  endless  pros|iect  of  bolts  and  bars,  and 
stone  walls.  The  time  came  for  the  prison- 
ers to  be  locked  up  for  tlie  night  in  separate 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


209 


cells,  and  a.  sullen  fellow  of  a  turnkey  con- 
ducted William  Siiakspeare  to  a  most  dis- 
mal-looking narrow  dungeon,  furnished  with 
nothing  save  a  little  straw,  a  jug  of  water, 
and  a  loaf  of  bread.  Long  as  had  been  his 
fast,  he  felt  no  desire  to  break  it ;  but  the 
bed  was  welcome,  and  he  flung  himself  on 
it  with  a  lieart  overburtliened  with  most  un- 
happy feelings.  A  famous  ending  had  his 
glorious  anticipations  come  to  !  Tiie  visions 
of  greatness  that  could  awhile  since^scarce 
be  spanned,  save  by  imagination,  were  now 
cribbed  within  a  cold  narrow  cell.  All  his 
tine  hopes  that  a  few  days  before  looked  to 
be  heir  apparent  to  the  brightest  honors  of 
genius,  now  must  needs  put  up  with  straw 
for  lying,  bread  and  water  for  victual,  and 
bare  stone  walls  for  lodging.  To  say  he 
was  not  cast  down  at  sucii  ill  fortune,  were 
to  depart  from  the  truth  strangely,  for  in 
very  honesty,  he  was  in  a  desperate  sad- 
ness— as  will  be  found  all  very  sanguine 
natures  when  they  come  to  find  their  high 
expectations  overthrown  ;  and  assuredly  he 
had  some  reason,  for  when  he  should  have 
his  liberty  was  most  uncertain.,  and  to  a  free 
aspiring  mind  like  his,  confinement  in  such 
narrow  limits  was  liardly  to  bs  endured. 

But  it  soon  struck  him,  that  despondency 
would  do  him  but  small  service,  and  the  only 
way  to  get  off  the  unpleasantness  of  Ins  pre- 
sent strait,  was  to  bear  it  patiently.  He  lay  a 
thinking  what  he  should  do.  He  cared  not 
how  soon  he  got  away  from  his  present  com- 
panions— -for  he  had  already  had  enough  of 
them,  and  determined  as  the  first  thing  to  let 
his  old  schoolfellow,  Tom  Greene,  know 
where  lie  had  been  placed,  tliat  if  by  his 
means  his  liberation  could  be  effected,  it 
might  be  done  with  all  convenient  speed. — 
In  this  he  overlooked  the  difficully  there  was 
of  his  getting  any  communication  conveyed 
from  Newgate.  Had  he  any  sufficient  bribe, 
Ihere  would  be  some  chance  of  it,  but  in  his 
penniless  state,  he  was  like  enough  to  re- 
main where  he  was  till  doomsday,  ere  his 
friends  could  know  of  his  hapless  case, 
througli  the  assistance  of  his  jailors.  For- 
tunately, of  this  he  was  ignorant,  for  he  pre- 
sently fell  to  more  agreeable  thoughts,  and 
as  he  was  in  fancy  fondling  his  dear  chil- 
dren— weary  with  trouble  and  exhausted  by 
fatigue,  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Here,  in  this  noisouie  dimgeon,  he  was 
again  visited  by  the  glorious  dreams  of  his 
early  days.  The  place  became  a  most  fair 
landscape,  beautifully  garnished  with  ravish- 
ing sweet  blossoms,  and  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood filled  with  a  fairy  company,  as 
choicely  apparelled  as  beautifully  featured, 
singing  as  delectably  and  dancing  with  as 
14 


delicate  a  grace  as  ever ;  and,  as  usual. 
brighter  than  them  all  shone  her  who  seem- 
ed their  queen,  and  she  regarded  him  with  a 
very  marvellous  kindness,  led  the  others  to 
do  liim  all  imaginable  gentle  courtesies,  and 
in  music  of  exquisite  pleasantness  sung  him 
such  comfortable  words  as  appeared  to  fill 
him  with  greater  hope  than  he  had  known 
his  whole  life  long.  But  besides  this,  she 
addressed  him  witti  language  of  counsel,  to 
the  effect  he  would  keep  his  nature  unsul- 
lied by  evil  doings  ;  pointing  out  the  profit 
1  of  honorable  behavior,  and  assuring  him  of 
the  notaide  truth,  that  he  who  seeks  for  fame 
!  never  can  hold  it  for  any  time,  save  with  pure 
hands  and  a  noble  heart. 

Then  she  bade  him  look  in  a  certain  di- 
rection, and  there  he  beheld  the  figure  of 
himself,  done  to  the  very  life,  seeming  to  be 
hungry,  weary,  and  a  prisoner  as  he  was — 
anon  the  scene  changed  ;  he  had  his  liberty, 
but  iie  was  struggling  with  manifold  hard- 
ships, one  following  on  another  so  closely 
there  was  no  rest  for  them,  and  each  press- 
ing with  exceeding  severity  it  seemed  a  mar- 
vel how  they  could  be  tolerated  ;  they  lasted 
a  long  space,  but  gradually  appearances 
looked  more  favorable  ;  the  prospect  became 
brighter,  the  scenes  changed  I'apidly  from 
one  delightful  landscape  to  another,  till  it  ap- 
peared as  though  a  whole  world  of  splendor 
and  happiness  lay  open  to  his  view.  From 
one  quarter  the  applause  of  assembled  thou- 
sands were  shouted  in  his  ears ;  from  ano- 
ther came  the  commendations  of  whole  mul- 
titudes of  the  learned  ;  here,  in  some  hum- 
ble hearth-side,  resounded  the  honest  praises 
of  the  poor  and  lowly  ;  and  elsewhere  from 
the  hall,  tlie  bovi'er,  the  garden,  and  the  grove, 
plaudits  as  fervent  were  breathed  from 
gallant  knights  and  honorable  fair  ladies. — 
Certes  he  would  have  been  glad  enough  to 
have  dreamt  sucli  a  dream  as  this  all  his 
days  :  but  a  rough  voice  and  a  rude  shake 
put  it  to  a  sudden  ending,  and  starting  up  lie 
found  one  of  the  turnkeys  standing  over 
him  with  a  lanthorn,  his  ill-featured  counte- 
nance forming  a  most  revolting  contrast  to 
the  sunny  faces  he  had  gazed  on  in  his  vi- 
sion. 

"  A  murrain  on  thee,  wilt  thou  never 
wake  ?"  exclaimed  the  jailor  sharply. — 
"  Why,  thou  sleepest  as  though  thou  hadst 
no  hope  of  sleep  again.  "  Marry,  and 
thou  takest  such  rest  the  morning  thou  art 
to  be  hanged,  they  must  needs  put  thee  to 
the  rope  in  the  midst  of  it." 

"  What  want  you  with  me  ?"  inquired  the 
prisoner. 

"  Thou  must  along  with  me  with  all 
speed,"  replied  the  man. 


210 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  For  what  purpose,  I  pray  you  ?"  asked 
the  youth. 

"  Purpose,  quotha,  how  should  I  know  ?" 
said  the  jailor.  "  Mayhap  'tis  the  pillory — 
mayhap  the  stocks — mayhap  a  goodly  whip- 
ping ;  they  be  the  only  purposes  that  travel 
to  Newgate,  Pll  warrant.  But  come  along, 
I  tell  thee,  I  can  allow  of  no  tarrying."  j 

Believing  it  useless  to  say  anything  more,  [ 
William  Sirakspeare  rose  and  followed  his 
guide  through  numberless  narrow  passages 
so  dark  he  could  scarce  see  his  way  along 
even  with  the  help  of  the  lantern  his  com- 
panion carried  before  him,  the  jailor  grum- 
bling at  every  step,  and  his  prisoner  in  a  mood 
hardly  more  social,  from  having  been  dis-  ' 
turbed  in  such  pleasant  dreaming.  From  all 
he  could  gather  from  the  sulky  turnkey,  his 
being  led  to  another  part  of  the  prison  boded 
him  no  good  ;  and  he  supposed  it  was  to  re- 
ceive some  degrading  punishment  or  ano- 
ther, such  as  is  commonly  bestowed  on  per- 
sons whose  chief  crime  happeheth  to  be 
their  poverty.  i 

In  such  manner  the  two  arrived  at  a  door 
in  a  distant  part  of  the  building,  which  the 
jailor  opening,  bade  the  other  enter  by  him-  1 
self.  On  gaining  admission  into  the  cham-  j 
ber,  the  latter  found  three  persons  seated  to- 
gether, whom  he  took  to  be  his  judges  going 
to  sentence  him  to  the  dreaded  punishment. 
One  was  a  very  severe  looking  personage, 
from  whose  aspect  he  could  gather  but  few 
hopes,  and  was  clad  somewhat  in  jailor 
fashion,  with  sundry  large  keys  at  his  belt. 
The  others  had  much  of  the  gallant  in  their 
appearance,  and  possessed  countenances 
that  savored  considerably  more  of  humanity. 

"  An'  it  please  you  to  leave  his  examina- 
tion to  me,  I  will  have  the  truth  from  him 
speedily,"  said  the  first  to  his  companions  ; 
and  then  turning  sharply  to  the  young 
prisoner,  commenced  questioning  him  after 
the  following  fashion,  the  other  answering 
as  follows  : — 

"  Fellow  !  what's  thy  name  ?" 

"  William  Shakspeare." 

"  Where  dost  come  from  ?" 

"  Stratford  on  Avon,  in  Warwickshire." 

"  How  long  hast  been  in  London  ?" 

"  Only  a  few  hours." 

"  What  brought  thee  here  ?" 

"  I  came  to  be  a  player  in  the  company  of 
Master  Burbage  at  the  Bankside." 

"  Now  Master  Turnkey,  this  evidently 
proves  him  to  be  no  vagrant,"  observed  one 
of  the  gallants. 

"  I  pray  your  worship  stop  awhile,"  re- 
plied the  jailor.  "  These  fellows  have  some 
famous  fine  story  always  at  their  command- 
ment.    O'  my  life,  I  do  believe,  were  you  to 


examine  the  most  notorious  rogue  under  my 
hands,  he  would  presently  make  himself  out 
to  be  as  honest  a  man  as  any  in  the  city. 
Let  me  ask  of  him  a  few  more  questions." 
Then  turning  to  his  prisoner,  he  added — 
"  How  long  hast  been  a  player  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say  I  have  ever  been  a  player," 
answered  the  other. 

"  There,  I  said  I  would  presently  make 
him  show  himself  for  what  he  truly  is — a 
masterless  man,  and  no  player  !''  exclaimed 
the  turnkey,  exultingly,  to  his  companions, 
and  then  turning  sharply  to  the  prisoner, 
added — "  Prithee  have  done  with  thy  coney- 
catching  ;  I  am  not  to  be  so  caught,  my 
young  master.  Thou  saidst  but  a  moment 
since  thou  wert  a  player,  and  now  thou  hast 
the  impudency  to  declare  thou  hast  never 
been  a  player.  What  dost  mean  by  that, 
fellow?" 

"I  mean  just  what  I  said,"  replied  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare,  undauntedly ;  "  I  have 
many  times  played  in  plays ;  but  as  I  have 
done  it  solely  for  my  own  amusement,  I  could 
not  consider  myself  a  player,  who  playeth 
only  for  his  own  living." 

"  Truly,  a  just  distinction,"  said  one  of 
the  gallants. 

"  A  monstrous  fine  story,  I'll  warrant," 
exclaimed  the  turnkey.  "  But  if  there  be 
any  truth  in  what  thou  hast  advanced,  per- 
chance thou  wilt  name  some  person  of  re- 
pute who  will  testify  to  thy  honesty." 

"  Very  readily,"  replied  the  prisoner ; 
"  Thomas  Greene,  a  player  at  the  Globe,  who 
hath  his  lodging  at  the  sign  of  the  Phcenix, 
in  Bucklersbury,  where  I  was  proceeding 
when  I  was  taken  hold  of  by  the  constables 
and  conveyed  here  ;  he  will  vouch  for  me 
at  any  time,  for  he  hatli  been  my  school-fel- 
low ;  as  have  also  the  younger  Burbage, 
Hemings,  and  Condell,  other  players  at  the 
Globe." 

"  Marry,  players  must  make  but  sorry 
vouchers,  for,  methinks,  they  be  little  better 
than  vagroms,"  observed  the  jailor. 

"  The  persons  named  I  know  to  be  of  a 
very  fair  character,"  replied  the  gallant  who 
had  before  spoken.  "  William  Shakspeare, 
allow  me  to  ask  you  one  question  ?" 

"  Any  number,  if  it  please  you,  sir,"  an- 
swered tlie  prisoner,  charmed  with  the  cour- 
teous manner  of  his  interrogator. 

"  Have  you  lost  anything  since  your  arri- 
val in  London  ?" 

"  I  have  lost  all  I  had,"  replied  tiie  other. 
"  The  constables  deprived  me  of  what  tliey 
could  lay  their  hands  on,  and  the  prisoners 
here  in  Newg*ato  took  from  me  what  was 
left.     I  should  have  cared  the  less,  if  they 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


211 


had  spared  me  certain  writings  I  had  about 
me." 

"  What  sort  of  writings  were  they  ?" 

"Verses  chiefly." 

"  Were  they  your  own  composition  ?" 

"  They  were." 

"  Is  this  one  of  them  ?"  inquired  his  ques- 
tioner, placing  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  Indeed  it  is,  and  tlio  one  I  last  wrote  of 
them  all,"  replied  tlie  young  poet,  glancing 
at  his  own  lines,  as  if  glad  to  have  them 
back. 

"  I  am  convinced  of  it,"  added  the  other. 
"  It  was  picked  up  by  my  companion,  Master 
Edmund  Spenser,  on  the  spot  where  you 
had  been  struggling  with  the  constables." 

"  I  deem  myself  wondrous  fortunate  in 
having  been  there  at  such  a  time,"  said 
Master  Spenser,  warmly.  "And  having 
read  its  worthy  contents,  I  hurried  to  my 
noble,  and  esteemed  good  friend  here,  Sir 
Philip  Sydney,  and  succeeded,  as  I  expected, 
knowing  his  truly  generous  disposition,  in 
interesting  him  to  seek  you  out,  and  deliver 
you  from  your  undeserved  imprisonment." 

William  Shakspeare  was  surprised  and 
delighted  beyond  measure,  at  hearing  of 
names  he  had  for  some  time  looked  up  to  as 
the  most  honorable  in  the  kingdom,  and  ex- 
pressed himself  very  gratefully  for  the  trou- 
ijle  tliey  had  been  at  on  his  account.  But 
the  matter  rested  not  here.  He  presently 
walked  out  of  Newgate,  with  his  two  famous 
new  acquaintances,  without  hindrance  from 
the  jailor,  for  they  had  brought  with  them 
the  Earl  of  Leicester's  authority  for  his  li- 
beration, which  none  dared  gainsay  :  and 
shortly  after,  to  the  infinite  satisfaction  of  all 
parties,  he  found  himself  seated  by  the  side 
of  his  early  patrons.  Sir  Valentine  and  Sir 
Reginald,  at  the  house  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
by  whom  he  was  very  kindly  and  liberally 
entertained. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

To  you  I  have  unclasped  my  burthened  soul, 
Emptied  the  storehouse  of  my   thoughts  and 

heart, 
Made  myself  poor  of  secrets  ;  have  not  left 
Another  word  untold  which  hath  not  spoke 
All  that  I  ever  durst,  or  think,  or  know. 

Ford. 
Give  me  a  key  for  this, 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

Shakspeare. 

"  Boy  !  can  I  trust  thee  ?" 

"  Ay,  my  lord,  with  your  heart's  deepest 


secret;  and  the  grave  itself  shall  not  be 
more  silent  than  your  poor  page." 

'•  I  do  believe  thee.  I  have  tried  thee  long, 
and  found  thee  the  fiiithfullest  honest  crea- 
ture master  ever  knew.  That  thou  lovest 
me  I  am  assured.  I  have  had  good  proof 
on't.  I  thought  there  was  not  one  heart  in 
which  I  could  meet  the  slightest  sympathy, 
but  in  thee  there  are  signs  of  such  great 
abundance  as  make  me  amends  for  the  un- 
feehngness  of  otliers.  My  spirit  is  weary  of 
long-suffering.  My  health  is  broken.  1 
cannot  disguise  from  myself  I  am  sinkinor 
fast.  It  therefore  becometh  necessary  I 
should  procure  some  one  to  perform  for  me 
those  othces  I  shall  soon  be  disabled  from 
attempting.  To  do  this  I  must  betray  a 
secret  I  have  kept  as  jealously  as  if  my 
whole  life  depended  on  its  preservation  ;  and 
in  none  can  I  put  faith,  save  only  thee. 
Thou  canst  serve  me  if  thou  wilt,  as  page 
never  served  his  lord  before;  but  if  the  duty 
should  be  distasteful  to  thee,  as  'tis  very  like 
to  be,  I  hold  thee  free  to  refuse  ;  and  if  after 
what  I  am  about  to  tell  thee,  thou  canst  look 
on  me  no  more  as  one  worthy  to  be  thy  mas- 
ter, I  will  honorably  provide  thee  with  all 
things  necessary  for  thy  living  elsewhere." 

"  My  lord,  I  am  in  heart  and  soul  a  crea- 
ture of  your  own ;  and  whatever  service  I 
can  render  necessary  for  your  safety,  de- 
pend on  it,  it  shall  be  done  faithfully  and 
well,  according  to  my  poor  ability." 

This  conversation  took  place  between 
the  Lord  de  la  Pole  and  his  page,  after  one 
of  the  fcarfullest  of  those  fearful  fits  to 
which  the  unhappy  Earl  was  generally  sub- 
ject, when  he  was  left  alone  in  the  mourn- 
ing chamber.  It  was  evident,  as  he  had 
said,  that  his  health  was  fast  declining,  for 
his  right  noble  countenance  looked  more 
haggard  than  it  was  wont ;  and  his  dark 
lustrous  eyes  appeared  to  be  rapidly  losing 
the  fire  which  had  so  brightly  lighted  them. 
His  raven  hair  too  had  been  thinned  of  its 
luxuriance,  and  all  about  him  bespoke  that 
breaking  up  of  the  constitution,  which  long 
continued  grief  marks  its  victim  for  the 
grave.  His  youthful  companion  wore  a  si- 
milar melancholy,  doubtless  caused  from 
constant  observation  of  his  lord's  sufferings, 
and  this  gave  a  very  touching  expression 
to  his  handsome  boyish  features,  which  in- 
creased greatly  whenever  he  chanced  to 
turn  his  gaze  upon  the  Earl.  The  latter, 
still  in  his  mourning  suit,  sate  in  the  library 
before  mentioned  ;  and  Bertram,  in  vest- 
ments of  the  same  color,  seated  himself  at 
a  short  distance,  where  he  remained  in  an 
attitude  of  the  profoundest  attention,  and 
with  an  expression  of  the  most  intense  in- 


212 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


terest,  whilst  the  Earl  proceeded  with  the 
promised  narration. 

"  Of  my  family,  mcthinks  I  need  say  no- 
thing," commenced  he ;  "  the  greatness  of 
the  SufTolks,  of  which  I  am  a  branch,  must 
be  sufficiently  known,  but  the  fame  of  their 
power  and  nobleness  so  influenced  my  early 
life,  I  could  not  rest  till  I  had  done  some- 
thing worthy  of  the  name  I  bore.  My 
youth  was  spent  in  foreign  wars,  under  the 
most  famous  leaders  ;  and  whenever  I  heard 
of  any  one  celebrated  for  deeds  of  arms,  I 
sought  all  ways  to  surpass  him  ;  nor  would 
I  be  satisfied  till  my  pre-eminence  was  ac- 
knowledged. But  this  was  by  no  means 
the  whole  of  wh;it  I  did.  I  had  been  well 
instructed  ;  and  perchance,  I  may  add,  I  was 
ever  of  a  well-disposed  nature,  whereof  the 
consequence  was,  I  took  especial  heed  my 
conduct  elsewhere  should  be  of  a  piece  with 
my  achievements  in  the  field.  Honor  was 
my  idol — honor  I  worshipped  :  in  no  case 
could  I  be  prevailed  on  to  meddle  in  any 
matter  wherein  honor  was  not  clearly  con- 
spicuous to  all  men's  eyes;  and  to  the  same 
extent  that  I  strove  carefully  to  attain  every 
title  honor  could  bestow,  I  was  jealous  that 
my  right  to  it  should  Iwve  no  questioning. 
None  could  be  more  desirous  of  good  opinion. 
To  hear  myself  well  spoke  of,  was  an  in- 
finite pleasure ;  but  to  have  any  one's  ill 
word,  to  be  ridiculed,  slandered,  or  misused 
in  speech,  fretted  me  beyond  measure.  May- 
hap this  was  a  weakness  ;  but  whatever  it 
was,  it  kept  unslacked  in  me  the  impulse  to 
exert  myself  to  gain  a  lasting  reputation,  till 
the  name  of  De  la  Pole  stood,  as  I  proudly 
believed,  second  to  none  in  every  commend- 
able quality. 

'■  I  ])ass  over  my  labors,  to  build  me  up 
this  goodly  reputation  :  suffice  it  to  say,  I 
returned  to  my  native  land  in  the  full  vigor 
of  manhood,  and  at  the  court  of  her  High- 
ness Elizabeth  was  speedily  recognized,  as 
what  I  had  sought  so  earnestly  to  be. 
Hitherto  I  had  thought  nothing  of  love  ;  my 
career  of  honor  left  me  no  time  for  tender 
dalliance,  or  else  I  was  indifferent  to  the 
charms  of  such  fair  creatures  as  I  had  seen  ; 
but  amongst  the  queen's  ladies  there  was 
one,  whose  youth,  beauty,  character  and  sta- 
tion, united  to  form,  as  I  then  thought,  the 
noblest  damsel  in  the  realm.  In  her,  fame 
had  left  no  one  part  which  envy  might  as- 
sail ;  and  fortune  had  surrounded  her  with 
such  prodigality  of  gifts,  as  if  to  show  how 
delighted  she  was  in  having  so  worthy  an 
object  on  whom  to  bestow  them.  Methinks 
'tis  almost  needless  to  say  she  had  suitors. 
She  had  broad  lands  ;  she  was  of  one  of  the 
powerfu  Ifainilies  of  the  kingdom  ;  and  she 


appeared  as  peerless  in  conduct  as  she  was 
in  person ;  and  such  attractions  could  not 
fail  of  bringing  to  her  feet  a  sufficiency  of 
wooers.  I  had  heard  much  in  her  praise 
before  I  beheld  her  ;  but  ere  I  had  an  hour's 
acquaintance,  I  doubted  she  had  been  done 
justice  to.  Still  1  kept  aloof  from  the  crowd 
by  whom  she  was  always  surrounded,  and 
satisfied  myself  with  observing  her  at  a  dis- 
tance. Every  day  I  saw  her  she  seemed  to 
grow  more  admirable  ;  and  each  relation  I 
heard  of  her  exceeded  the  preceding  one, 
towards  proving  her  wondrous  well  disposed- 
ness. 

"  A  message  from  herself  brought  me  at 
last  to  her  side — a  message  so  expressive  of 
compliment,  I  attended  her  summons  with 
more  pleasure  than  ever  I  had  known  from 
similar  commendations,  gratifying  as  they 
had  always  been  to  me.  Once  there,  it  ap- 
peared as  though  I  must  there  stay.  At  first 
she  would  scarce  allow  me  to  be  anywhere 
else  •,  but  in  a  fair  interval,  I  found  myself 
under  so  strong  a  charm,  nowhere  else  would 
I  remain  could  I  avoid  it :  in  brief,  I  loved 
her.  Some  months  afterwards,  I  gained 
from  her,  that  long  before  she  had  seen  me 
she  had  loved  me  for  my  reputation.  After 
a  delicious  sufficiency  of  most  exquisite 
courtship,  my  happiness  seemed  to  be  com- 
plete, when  I  received  her  in  marriage.  In 
a  little  vfhile,  I  believed  my  real  felicity  had 
only  commenced,  so  much  did  my  enjoyment 
then  exceed  all  that  I  had  known  before. 
Every  day  she  evinced  in  her  character 
some  new  and  admirable  feature  ;  the  more 
I  saw  of  her,  the  more  cause  saw  I  to  con- 
gratulate myself  I  had  been  blessed  with  so 
rare  a  partner.  Her  love  for  mc  looked  to 
be  mingled  with  an  honorable  pride,  that 
made  it  all  the  more  flattering  to  one  of  my 
disposition.  None  could  seem  so  exceeding 
content — none  could  have  appeared  so  truly 
affectionate.  It  may  be  easily  imagined,  my 
love  of  praise  at  this  time  partook  largely 
of  a  desire  of  having  my  wife  as  famously 
commended  ;  in  fact  it  was  the  same  identi- 
cal feeling,  for  I  looked  on  Lady  Hlanche  as 
the  best  and  dearest  part  of  myself ;  and  I 
wished  to  see  her  pre-eminence  in  every 
good  quality  luiiversally  acknowledged,  be- 
cause any  contrary  opinions  might  reflect 
unfavorably  on  the  other  portion  of  me. 

'•  At  this  period  to  add  to  her  other  pow- 
(>rfal  claims  u])oii  my  love,  she  promised  to 
become  a  mother — an  e\ent  I  lookeil  for- 
ward to  with  an  interest  which  exceedetli 
all  conceiving,  nien  it  was  there  came  on 
a  visit  to  me  a  young  kinsman  of  ^nine.  I 
had  heard  r\imors  of  his  being  of  a  wild 
reckless  disposition ;  and  tliat  he  bore  .\iim- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


213 


■self  more  carelessly  than  became  any  one 
wishing  to  be  honorably  thought  of.  I  hked 
not  this.  It  grieved  me  tliat  one  in  any  way 
related  to  me  should  be  so  ill  reported.  One 
day  I  took  him  aside  and  told  him  what  I  had 
heard  to  his  disadvantage,  but  he  swore  so 
solemnly  he  had  not  deserved  what  was  said 
of  him,  that  I  could  not  help  believing  he 
had  been  maligned,  as  he  declared,  by  false 
envious  persons.  1  then  counselled  him  to 
marry  some  worthy  woman,  which  would 
put  a  stop  to  such  slanders  for  the  future, 
and  pointed  to  the  happiness  I  enjoyed  as 
the  best  inducement  to  it  he  could  have  ;  but 
he  answered  somewhat  confusedly,  that  some 
often  considered  themselves  exceeding  happy 
from  ignorance  of  matters,  which,  when 
known,  would  make  them  the  miserablest 
persons  in  the  world.  Thereupon  I  said 
such  might  be  the  case,  but  as  regarded  my- 
self there  could  be  no  possibility  of  such  a 
thing.  He  replied  very  earnestly,  '  long  may 
you  think  so,'  and  with  a  deep  sigh  left  me 
to  my  own  reflections. 

"  My  kinsman  had  ever  shown  to  me  a 
marvellous  frank  and  social  spirit ;  but  of 
late  I  had  noticed  that  he  had  rather  avoided 
me — gazed  on  me  with  a  countenance  full 
of  pity,  and  when  he  talked,  spoke  with  an 
ambiguous  and  mysterious  fashion,  of  which 
I  could  make  nothing,  save  a  lamentation 
that  villainy  should  be  so  fairly  disguised.  I 
marvelled,  and  not  without  an  undefinable 
uneasiness,  at  such  sort  of  speech,  but  though 
I  pressed  him  to  explain  himself,  he  would 
only  shake  his  head,  and  say  it  was  a  thing 
he  had  not  the  heart  to  do.  Following  close 
upon  the  heels  of  this,  he  would  oft  regret 
that  so  noble  a  gentleman  as  myself  should 
be  so  grossly  imposed  upon;  and  that,  out  of 
extreme  love  for  me,  those  who  knew  of  the 
cheat  should  be  forced  to  allow  of  its  con- 
tinuance. All  these  hints  and  innendoes, 
and  the  mysterious  manner  in  which  they 
were  uttered,  in  time  produced  in  me  a  most 
fearful  state  of  anxiousness  and  disquietude. 

"  It  looked  as  though  some  extraordinarj' 
mischief  was  impending,  known  only  by 
this  kinsman,  who  liked  not  the  otRce  of 
breaking  such  ill  news,  but  in  what  quarter 
it  threatened,  or  in  what  shape  it  was  to  ap- 
pear, I  was  completely  at  a  loss ;  and  what 
made  the  matter  worse,  so  seemed  liJcely  to 
remain. 

"  At  last  he  dropped  something  concerning 
of  my  dishonor.  I  fired  at  the  word.  My 
whole  nature  was  stirred  as  if  with  a  mighty 
earthquake.  We  were  alone.  I  presently 
declared  to  him  did  he  not  tell  me  on  the  in- 
stant the  cause  of  what  he  had  said,  I  would 
slay  him  where  he  stood.     He  begged  and 


prayed  most  movingly  I  would  let  him  off  a 
task  he  so  hugely  mi.'diked,  but  the  more 
earnestly  ho  strove  to  excuse  himself,  the 
more  fiercely  I  insisted  on  his  declaring  to 
me  whatever  there  might  be  to  say.  Then 
he  added  with  extreme  seriousnchs,  that  the 
consequences  must  rest  with  w.c — that  I  was 
hurrying  on  to  meet  my  misery ;  but  if  I 
would  force  the  secret  from  tiitn,  that  I  must 
give  him  my  assurance  to  take  no  measures, 
or  to  show  to  any  one  a  knowledge  of  it, 
till  he  had  given  such  proofs  of  its  correct- 
ness as  he  had  at  his  disposal.  This  I  sol- 
emnly promised.  My  ears  drunk  in  with 
horror  the  tale  he  told  me ;  it  was  that  once 
being  out  late  he  had  observed  a  gallant  at 
the  dead  hour  of  the  night  ascending  by  a 
ladder  of  ropes  to  the  Lady  Blanche's  cham- 
ber— so  strange  a  sight  made  him  marvel 
exceedingly,  and  he  stopped  to  see  what 
would  follow.  The  gallant  entered  the 
chamber,  and  there  remained  upwards  of 
an  hour.  When  he  again  appeared  at  the 
window  there  was  a  female  in  his  company, 
and  they  there  embraced  very  fondly.  Then 
he  descended  to  the  ground  and  made  off, 
and  the  ladder  was  immediately  drawn  up 
into  the  chamber.  I  felt  as  if  1  could  have 
torn  my  intelligencer  limb  from  limb ;  for  if 
angels  had  sworn  matter  of  the  like  ten- 
dency, I  would  not  have  credited  a  word  of 
it ;  but  I  dissembled  so  much  of  my  passion 
as  to  ask  him  if  he  recognized  the  female 
he  saw  at  the  window.  He  said  he  did,  for 
he  had  such  view  of  her  as  could  not  mis- 
lead him.  I  bade  him  without  fail  confess 
to  me  who  it  was.  He  replied  on  no  ac- 
count could  he  do  so,  as  it  might  lead  to  ir- 
reparable mischiefs  :  and  added  that  he  had 
gone  to  the  same  place  at  the  same  hour 
every  night  since,  and  had  witnessed  the 
same  proceedings. 

"  But  I  would  have  the  name;  and  by  dint 
of  threats,  and  repeated  promises  to  behold 
the  proofs  he  spoke  of,  I  gained  it  from  him. 
It  was  the  countess.  This  I  had  anticipated 
from  the  foregoing  ;  but  on  liis  confirming 
my  suspicions,  I  contented  myself  for  the 
present  with  determining  in  my  own  mind 
to  bestow  a  proper  punishment  on  so  vile  a 
traducer.  However,  I  demanded  of  him  to 
lead  me  to  the  spot  where  he  had  seen  what 
he  had  related,  fully  convinced  I  should  there 
disprove  everj'^  particular  of  his  relation.  Till 
the  hour  appointed  I  kept  myself  as  quiet  as 
I  could,  though  my  restlessness  must  have 
been  evident  to  all.  1  said  to  none  what  I 
had  heard.  The  countess  retired  to  her 
chamber  somewhat  earlier  than  usual,  but 
this  I  ought  to  have  looked  for,  knowing  the 
state  in  which  she  was.     Her  niamier  was 


214 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


in  no  way  different  from  the  ordinary,  save 
she  would  have  it  I  ailed  something,  assert- 
ing she  had  never  seen  mc  look  so  strangely, 
and  imploring  me  to  take  hoed  of  my  health. 
To  one,  like  myself,  who  placed  s\ich  im- 
mense importance  on  honorable  opinion, 
what  had  been  told  by  my  kinsman  was  like 
enough  to  produce  very  terrible  consequen- 
ces. Certes  I  would  not  allow  of  its  po.'^si- 
bility ;  yet,  for  all  that,  I  was  filled  with  ap- 
prehensions almost  as  unendurable  as  the 
most  perfect  conviction  could  have  been. 

"  To  my  great  relief,  midnight  arrived, 
and  wrapping  ourselves  in  large  cloaks,  my 
kinsman  and  1  proceeded  behind  some  trees, 
at  a  convenient  distance  from  the  Lady 
Blanche's  chamber  window.  The  night 
was  somewhat  dusky ;  but  not  as  1  thought, 
dark  enough  to  prevent  o\u-  seeing  objects 
as  far  olf  as  was  required.  There  1  stood 
with  the  full  intention  of  punishing  my 
companion's  treachery  as  speedily  as  it  might 
become  manifest.  Having  waited  a  consid- 
erable time  and  seen  nothing,  I  had  just 
commenced  denouncing,  with  the  fiercest 
bitterness,  his  baseness  in  striving  to  impose 
on  me  with  so  improbable  a  tale,  when  he 
caught  hold  of  me  forcibly  by  the  arm,  cry- 
ing 'hush!'  and  pointed  in  a  certain  direc- 
tion. To  my  exceeding  astonishment  1  then 
beheld  a  man,  closely  \\Tapped  up,  stealing, 
with  extreme  cautiousness,  towards  the 
house.  My  wonder  became  the  greater 
when  1  observed  him  stop  exactly  under- 
neath my  wife's  chamber  window,  and  clap 
his  hands  thrice  ;  and  nought  could  exceed 
the  strange  amazement  I  was  in  when  I  no- 
ticed a  female  open  the  window  and  throw 
out  a  ladder  of  ropes,  on  which  the  gallant 
mounted  rapidly — the  two  caressed  at  the 
window  with  every  sign  of  mutual  fondness, 
and  the  next  moment  the  ladder  was  drawn 
up,  and  they  disappeared. 

"I  could  not  very  plainly  distinguish  the 
features  of  the  lady,  but  the  figure  was  man- 
ifest beyond  all  mistaking.  No  one  in  the 
house  was  in  the  same  state ;  and  the  dress, 
too,  was  equally  evident.  It  was  tii(^  count- 
ess. The  horror,  the  shame,  the  rage,  the 
indignation  with  which  I  was  filled  at  this 
discovery,  made  me  incapable  ol'  motion — 
nay,  I  stood  breathless,  as  though  1  had  been 
turned  to  stone.  My  seni-es  were  a  com- 
plete whirlpool  of  furious  passions.  I  knew 
not  what  to  be  about :  all  in  me  bespoke  a 
confused,  bewildered,  desperate  madness. 
My  kinsman  asking  me  what  should  be 
done,  roused  me  to  a  proper  consciousness. 
I  bade  him  remain  where  he  was,  and  if  the 
gallant,  whoever  he  might  be,  sought  to  es- 
cape by  the  window,  to  f;\ll  upon   him  and 


hold  him  fast  till  I  returned.  At  that  he 
drew  his  sword,  and  swore  very  earnestly  he 
should  not  escape  alive.  I  then  hastened 
into  the  house.  All  slept — or  appeared  to 
sleep.  There  was  a  deathlike  quiet  in  every 
part  of  the  mansion,  that  seemed  in  marvel- 
lous contrast  to  the  wild  riot  in  my  breast. 
1  gained  the  door  of  my  wife's  chamber. 
For  the  first  time  I  had  so  found  it,  it  was 
locked.  This  discover^'  added  fuel  to  the 
fire.  I  strove  with  all  my  might  to  break  it 
open.  It  was  too  strong  to  be  so  forced,  but 
the  violence  of  the  shock  I  had  given  it 
brought  my  wife  to  it  presently.  IShe  in- 
quired, in  some  seeming  alarm,  '  who  was 
there  ?'  I  answered,  commanding  lier  to 
open  the  door  immediately.     It  was  done. 

"  On  my  entrance  she  complained  some- 
what of  my  disturbing  her  rest  so  strangely. 
1  gave  a  rapid  survey  of  the  chamber,  and 
not  finding  him  I  sought  for,  I  fixed  a  fierce 
look  on  my  wife,  who  was  gazing  on  me  as 
it  seemed,  in  the  confusion  of  conscious 
guilt.  At  this  moment  I  heard  the  clashing 
of  swords,  and  running  to  the  casement, 
observed  my  kinsman  fighting  furiously 
with  the  same  person  I  had  seen  enter  the 
countess's  chamber.  The  ladder  of  ropes 
had  been  left  attached  to  the  window,  and  I 
was  proceeding  to  descend  by  it,  when  my 
faithless  wife  caught  hold  of  my  arm,  and 
implored  me  not  to  venture  myself  into  any 
danger.  I  took  this  as  a  crafty  design  to 
assist  the  escape  of  her  paramor,  and  with 
violent  execrations  rudely  thrust  her  from 
me,  and,  as  rapidly  as  I  could,  descended 
the  ladder.  Ere  I  had  got  to  the  bottom  I 
beheld  my  kinsman  fall  and  his  opponent 
take  to  flight.  I  pursued,  thirsting  with 
the  horriblest  vengeance,  but  at  the  distance 
of  about  a  hundred  yards,  to  my  infinite 
rage  and  disappointment,  I  beheld  him  mount 
a  tleet  steed  and  ride  oil"  at  a  pace  that  left 
all  pursuit  hopeless. 

"  I  returned  to  my  kinsman,  and  found 
him  bleeding,  and  from  his  manner,  appear- 
ing to  have  been  badly  hurt.  I  assisted  him 
into  the  house ;  but  tiiis  took  some  time  to 
do,  for  he  complained  at  every  step,  that  he 
could  scarce  endure  the  motion.  1  at  last 
got  him  to  his  chamber.  I  found  the  house 
in  the  same  quietness  as  it  had  been  when  I 
bad  entered  it  a  short  time  previous  ;  and  its 
undisturbed  state  gave  me  a  hope  I  might 
still  conceal  my  dishonor  from  the  world — a 
hope  1  eagerly  caught  at.  1  extracted  from 
my  wounded  kinsman  a  solemn  oath,  that 
what  he  had  known  and  seen  shoidd  never 
pass  his  lips;  then  proceeded  I  to  the  cham- 
ber of  a  servant  of  mine,  who  had  lived  all 
his  life  in  my  family,  and  in  whose  fidelity 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


215 


I  could  place  implicit  confidence.  I  called 
him  up,  and  as  briefly  as  f  could,  acquainted 
him  with  what  had  transpired.  He  readily 
enough  promised  to  do  wliatever  I  might 
require  at  his  hands.  I  tlien  sent  him  to 
call  up  my  kinsman's  servant,  whilst  I  pro- 
ceeded to  my  lady's  chamber.  I  found  her 
lying-on  the  floor  senseless.  I  placed  her 
in  her  bed.  In  a  short  time,  she  began  to 
exhibit  signs  of  consciousness,  and  with  it 
yave  me  reason  to  believe  she  was  about  to 
become  a  mother.  Thereupon  I  hastened 
to  the  stables,  saddled  me  a  horse,  and  rode 
at  the  top  of  his  speed  to  the  nearest  mid- 
wife ;  and  blindfolding  her,  and  taking  every 
possible  precaution,  that  she  should  not 
know  where  she  was  going,  I  brought  her 
back  with  me.  She  did  her  office.  As  soon 
as  I  became  aware  of  the  child's  birth,  I 
snatched  it  from  her  hand,  and  hurried  with 
it  to  the  next  chamber,  where  my  faithful 
Adam  w"as  waiting  as  I  had  desired,  and  to 
liira  I  gave  it,  with  strict  commands  that 
instant  to  drown  it  in  the  deepest  part  of 
the  Avon,  which  he  vowed  to  do  in  such  a 
manner  as  should  prevent  the  slightest  clue 
to  discovery.  Then  I  hurried  the  midwife 
away  with  the  same  secrecy  with  wliich  I 
had  brought  her. 

"  On  my  return,  Adam  acquainted  me 
that  he  had  fulfilled  my  intentions  to  the 
very  letter,  which  gave  me  inexpressible 
satisfaction,  for  there  was  at  least  a  riddance 
of  one  witness  to  my  dishonor.  To  the  false 
woman,  its  motiier,  I  had  resolved- on  satis- 
fying my  just  vengeance  by  a  punishment 
worse  tiian  death.  None  of  the  domestics 
were  yet  stirring,  and  I  gave  orders  on  no 
account  should  any  be  allowed  to  go  to 
their  lady's  chamber,  on  the  plea  slie  was 
in  so  bad  a  state  she  was  not  expected  to 
live.  Thus  I  prevented  her  being  seen  by 
any  of  the  domestics  for  several  days,  during 
which  time  my  kinsman  was  confined  to 
his  own  chamber  by  the  hurt  lie  had  receiv- 
ed, and  therefore  remained  in  as  perfect  ig- 
norance of  what  was  going  on  as  tlie  rest. 
In  the  meanwhile,  with  the  assistance  of  my 
faithful  Adam,  every  thing  was  privily  being 
done  as  I  desired.  It  was  reported  by  him, 
that  the  countess  was  daily  getting  worse, 
and  at  last,  to  their  infinite  great  grief  and 
sorrowing,  it  was  given  out  she  was  dead. 
A  sumptuous  funeral  was  prepared.  I  had 
every  sign  of  mourning  placed  about  the 
mansion;  and  those  signs  I  have  never  al- 
lowed to  be  removed.  But  before  the  per- 
formance of  the  funeral  obsequies,  I  had 
secretly  removed  the  countess  from  her 
chamber  to  another  part  of  the  building, 
which  had  hitherto  been  scarcely  ever  used. 


"  Here  was  she  shut  up  close  from  all 
knowledge,  save  Adam  and  myself.  He  hath 
never  seen  her  from  the  date  of  her  im- 
prisonment till  the  present  time,  nor  hath 
she  since  then  been  allowed  to  behold  any 
human  being  but  myself,  her  so  deeply  in- 
jured husband;  for  such  was  my  intended 
punishment.  All  common  necessaries  she 
had,  but  her  clothing  was  reduced  to  a  coarse 
mourning  habit.  Thus  I  had  ■secured  my 
honor,  but  as  I  speedily  found,  at  the  ex"- 
pcnse  of  my  peace  of  mind.  Lady  Blanche 
made  but  one  attempt  to  turn  mo  from  my 
purpose,  and  that  was  at  the  birth  of  her 
offspring  ;  but  finding  it  needless,  she  never 
after  sought  to  moi'e  my  commiseration  with 
a  single  word,  and  seemed  to  have  resigned 
herself  to  the  justice  of  her  sentence.  At 
first,  I  took  a  sensible  satisfaction  in  show- 
ing myself  to  her,  clad  in  the  trappings  of 
woo.  I  declared  to  her  what  I  had  done, 
and  told  her  she  was  as  dead  to  me  as  she 
was  to  the  world ;  but  in  consideration  of 
the  virtues  she  had  assumed,  my  mourning 
for  her  should  only  cease  with  my  life.  She 
bowed  her  head  submissively,  and  replied, 
she  was  well  content  it  should  be  so  since 
I  had  so  willed  it ;  but  beibre  any  very  long- 
time had  passed,  I  began  to  have  doubts 
that  the  manner  in  which  I  had  endeavored 
to  keep  the  secret  of  my  dishonor,  was  less 
dishonorable  than  would  have  been  its  pub- 
licity. An  act  which  vengeance  had  not 
allowed  me  to  see  in  its  proper  colors,  now 
stood  before  me  in  all  its  horrible  injustice. 
I  could  easily  reconcile  my  conscience  to 
any  punishment  of  a  guilty  wife,  but  the 
murder  of  an  innocent  poor  babe  seemed 
incapable  of  any  justification. 

"  Nought  in  this  world  can  exceed  the 
fierce  struggles  I  have  had  to  satisfy  myself 
with  the  deed ;  but  conscience,  instead  of 
being  overpowered  by  them,  appeared  to 
grow  the  stronger  after  every  encounter. 
Previously,  my  dishonor,  great  as  it  might 
be,  was  occasioned  by  no  fault  of  mine  own, 
and  by  some,  I  doubted  not,  my  reputation 
would  have  stood  in  no  way  aflected  by  it ; 
but  so  ruthless  a  murder  as  that  I  had  plan- 
ned and  put  in  practice,  I  felt  was  a  crime 
of  the  blacke.st  die,  the  whole  guilt  of  which 
was  mine,  and  if  it  was  made  public,  I  be- 
lieved I  should  be  condemned  and  shunned 
of  all  m.en.  Remorse  pursued  me  wherever 
I  went.  Sleeping  or  waking  the  deed  haunt- 
ed me.  I  Vv'as  perpetually  goaded  with  the 
reflection  that  Urban  de  la  Pole,  wiio  had 
won  so  many  titles  of  pre-eminence,  had 
now  made  himself  irrevocably  on  a  level 
with  the  basest  and  vilest  in  the  land.  Yet 
all  this  time  I  sought  as  urgently  as  ever  to 


216 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


excuse  myself,  by  every  manner  of  argu- 
ment. Sometimes  I  succeeded,  but  only  for 
a  brief  space  ;  and  again  I  was  tortured  by 
the  same  dreadful  feelings  of  self-condem- 
nation. 

"  Years  passed  on ;  but  every  year  ap- 
peared to  increase  my  sufferings,  and  time 
added  to  my  misery,  till  it  moved  me  like 
a  madness.  During  this  long  space  the 
countess  bore  her  imprisonment  without  a 
murmur — she  never  once  complained  of  her 
privations — she  never  once  sought  to  re- 
proach me  for  such  stern  usage  of  her — .she 
never  once  by  word,  look,  or  sign  intimated 
to  me  the  slightest  desire  to  change  her  way 
of  life.  Whenever  I  presented  myself  to 
her,  she  wore  a  contented  submissive  look ; 
which  through  twenty  years  of  rigorous  con- 
finement hath  remained  the  same,  I  found 
out  at  last,  that  instead  of  punishing  her  I 
was  punishing  myself.  My  sufferings  were 
becoming  intolerable,  whilst  the  did  not 
seem  to  suffer  in  any  manner.  Still  I  at 
all  times  noticed  in  her  an  expression  of 
countenance  which  I  felt  deeply,  but  I  can- 
not describe.  It  seemed  to  appeal  to  me 
more  strongly  than  the  most  conspicuous 
show  of  wretchedness  could  have  done  ;  and 
yet  it  was  not  one  of  wretchedness.  It  in- 
variably made  me,  on  my  leaving  her,  ask 
of  myself,  why  I  continued  to  bury  her  in 
so  merciless  a  manner  ?  and  then  followed 
a  raging  storm  of  conflicting  opinions  for 
and  against  her,  in  which  remorse  for  the 
murder  I  had  perpetrated  took  its  full  share. 
But  in  the  end,  I  felt  that  death  alone  had 
the  power  of  affording  her  release. 

"  My  kinsman,  although  he  had  got  hurt 
entirely  in  his  zeal  for  me,  I  could  not  bear 
the  sight  of.  I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  I 
looked  on  him  as  the  cause  of  my  misery. 
He  it  was  who  had  first  wakened  me  from 
the  dream  of  happiness  and  honor  in  which 
I  had  been  indulging;  and  I  thanked  him 
not  for  his  painstaking.  When  he  was  well 
of  his  wound,  I  hastened  his  departure  ;  and 
though  he  doth  occasionally  pay  me  visits, 
the  only  part  of  them  that  pleaseth  me  is 
when  he  turneth  his  back  to  be  gone. 
Since  thou  hast  been  with  me  I  have  seen 
nothing  nf  him,  for  which  I  am  infinitely 
thankful ;  but  1  am  in  daily  expectation  of 
hearing  of  his  arrival.  His  nature  and  mine 
can  have  no  sort  of  assimilation.  He  never 
comes  but  he  goads  mo  into  frenzy  with  his 
consolations  and  condolences,  and  a  thou- 
sand foolish  speeches  that  call  to  my  mind 
my  dishonor  and  my  crime.  Now  I  dread 
his  presence  worse  than  ever,  for  the  fangs 
of  remorse  have  worked  in  my  heart  such 
deep  wounds,  methinks  such  probing  as  his 


f  must  needs  destroy  me  quite.  It  is  with 
the  knowledge  of  my  growing  weakness, 
I  and  noting  that  my  faithful  Adam  is  getting 
I  old  apace,  and  witnessing  thy  extreme  af- 
I  fectionateness,  that  I  came  to  the  determi- 
I  nation  of  putting  such  confidence  in  thee  as 
;  to  require  thy  attendance  on  the  countess 
'.  in  place  of  myself. 

i      "  Thou  hast  not  sought  this  secret  of  me. 
!  I  have  seen  such  vouchers  for  thy  honor- 
!  able  nature  that  I  could  trust  thee,  as  I  now 
I  do,  with  the  custody  of  my  very  soul.     But 
1  remember,  as  I  told  thee,  that  if  thy  disposi- 
tion revolteth  at  the  idea  of  serving  a  mur- 
I  derer,  I  hold  thee  free  to  go  at  any  time, 
and  will  take  careful  heed  thy  going  shall 
do  thee  credit.     As  for  myself  I  can  only 
say,  could  a  thousand  years  of  severest  suf- 
fering undo  the  deed,  I  would  set  about  it 
with  a  cheerful  spirit.     Now  tell  me,  I  pri- 
thee, what  thou  art  inclined  to  do.     I  offer 
thee  no  reward  for  staying,  and   doing  me 
this  great  service,  save  my  undivided  love 
and  most  absolute  gratitude ;  shouldst  thou 
choose  to  go,  I  will  enrich  thee   for  life. 
Make  thy  choice." 

"  My  lord  you  surely  cannot  doubt  my 
choice,"  replied  Bertram,  in  a  most  winning, 
affectionate  manner.  "  1  do  as  sorely  la- 
ment the  deed  that  hath  been  done  as  can 
you  ;  but  our  lamentations  will  never  lessen 
its  enormity.  vStill  from  what  I  have  just 
learned,  I  cannot  help  perceiving  you  have 
had  monstrous  provocation ;  but  provoca- 
tion that  justified  the  crime  I  cannot  say — 
for  methinks  there  can  be  no  justification 
where  there  is  a  crime — or  no  crime  where 
a  justification  can  be  allowed.  Neverthe- 
less, I  must  surely  be  made  of  those  base 
materials,  were  you  twenty  times  as  guilty 
as  you  are,  were  I  to  desert  you  after  you 
have  put  such  entire  confidence  in  me.  Be- 
lieve me,  my  Lord,  my  love  for  you  is  of 
such  a  sort  that  I  desire  of  all  things  to  serve 
you  in  honesty  and  faithfulness  my  whole 
life  through ;  and  shall  think  my  fortune 
desperate,  indeed,  when  it  cometh  to  me  in 
such  ill  shape  as  my  being  forced  to  leave 
.so  kind  a  master." 

The  Earl  gave  no  answer  to  this  earnest 
and  loving  speech,  unless  it  were  replied  by 
his  looks  ;  which,  truly,  appeared  to  be  full 
of  right  eloquent  expression.  He  presently 
continued : — 

"  Thou  hast  had  opportunity  for  noticing 
that  a  ])ortion  of  this  book-case  hath  been 
ingeniously  contrived  to  be  a  secret  door, 
known  only  to  myself  and  my  faithful 
Adam.  This  opens  into  a  passage,  beyond 
which  is  a  chamber,  which  is  no  other  than 
the  prison  of  my  false  Countess.    There  for 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


211 


twenty  years  she,  a  daughter  of  one  of  the 
noblest  famihes,  hath  endured  such  priva- 
tions as  the  commonest  menial  scarce  ever 
is  forced  to  resort  to.  I  would  have  thee 
now  go  to  her  and  acquaint  her  with  my 
desire  thou  shouldst  attend  to  her  wants  in 
place  of  myself." 

The  page  readily  arose  to  fulfil  his  er- 
rand, and  the  secret  door  being  opened  he 
passed  through  it.  Now  he  experienced 
most  strange  feelings — an  infinite  dread  and 
dislike  of  appearing  before  this  dangerous 
had  woman,  who  had  done  sucli  terrible 
mischiefs.  He  could  not  tolerate  the  in- 
famy she  had  brought  on  herself,  knowing, 
us  he  did,  the  noble  nature  of  the  man  she 
liad  so  basely  wronged,  and  therefore  thought 
not  her  confinement  to  be  too  great  a  pun- 
ishment for  her  crime.  He  therefore  pre- 
pared himself  to  meet  a  woman  whom  he 
should  thoroughly  detest  at  the  first  glance 
— one  whose  attractions  must  have  faded 
under  the  rigor  of  such  long  imprisonment, 
;iiid  whose  state,  the  lack  of  ordinary  at- 
tmidance  had  made  slovenly  in  attire  and 
luicleanly  in  person.  He  pictured  too,  in 
his  mind,  her  prison  to  be  exceedingly  dirty, 
cheerless,  and  neglectful.  His  surprise  may 
Ije  imagined,  when  he  entered,  where  every 
thing  was  as  comfortable,  neat,  and  orderly 
as  in  the  best  apartment  in  the  mansion. 
Nothing  could  be  so  cleanly  as  seemed  every 
part  of  the  chamber,  and  the  only  sign  of 
cheerlessness  it  had  was  its  being  entirely 
covered  up  with  black  cloth. 

If  he  was  so  greatly  surprised  with  the 
prison,  he  was  far  more  so  with  the  prisoner. 
fie  beheld  before  him  a  lady  of  extreme 
beauty,  looking  to  be  in  the  very  prime  of 
life.  She  was  dressed  simply  in  a  black 
robe,  but  the  most  splendid  apparel  could 
not  have  shown  to  more  advantage  her  ma- 
jestic figure,  or  give  such  admirable  con- 
trast to  her  noble  countenance.  She  was 
sitting  reading  of  a  book  at  the  entrance  of 
the  page  ;  but  as  soon  as  she  aoticed  him 
she  started  up  in  a  great  marvel.  Her  won- 
der was  not  without  cause,  for  not  having 
seen  any  human  biMng  save  her  lord  for  so 
long  a  space,  she  could  not  but  be  infinitely 
astonished  at  the  presence  of  him  she  now 
beheld.  Truly,  at  any  place  Bertram  was 
no  common  sight,  for  by  this  time  the  hag- 
gard, sickly  expression  which  long  sickness 
and  suffering  had  left  on  his  features,  when 
he  first  entered  the  house,  was  changed  to 
one  of  health  and  comfort,  wherein  the 
softness  of  early  youth  was  made  more  win- 
ning by  the  sweet  and  pensive  melancholy 
with  which  his    handsome  features   were 


overcast.  Now,  with  his  intelligent  eyes 
radiant  with  wonder  as  he  gazed  on  the 
beautiful  woman  before  him,  he  looked  more 
handsome  than  ever  he  had  been  whilst  in 
his  present  abode.  His  hair,  in  rich  profu- 
sion, fell  down  even  to  the  white  falling 
bands  spread  open  round  his  neck,  which 
added  much  to  the  picturesque  expression  of 
his  countenance,  and  his  close-fitting  suit 
was  famously  adapted  to  display  to  the  most 
notable  advantage  the  grace  and  symmetry 
of  his  limbs. 

After  having  thus  wondrously  gazed  on 
each  other  for  many  seconds,  the  Lady 
Blanche  at  last  broke  the  strange  silence  by 
inquiring  of  the  youth  his  errand.  He  spoke 
it  with  so  gentle  a  courteousness  that  none 
could  help  being  charmed  with  him,  but  the 
countess  took  his  message  in  very  sorrowful 
part. 

"  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  young  sir,  for  what 
cause  is  it  my  lord  refuseth  to  see  me  ?"  in- 
quired she  in  a  most  urgent  manner. 

"  His  health,  lady,  is  getting  to  be  in  so 
decayed  a  state,  it  preventeth  him,"  replied 
the  page. 

"  Alack  !"  exclaimed  the  Lady  Blanche. 
"  I  have  marked  his  changed  aspect  a  long 
time  past.  Whilst  I  was  allowed  sight  of 
him  I  cared  not  for  being  shut  out  from  the 
world,  for  from  the  first  time  I  heard  of  his 
gallant  name,  he  hath  been  all  the  world  to 
me.  But  now  I  feel  I  am  punished  indeed. 
I  beseech  you,  gentle  sir,  implore  him  for 
me  that  I  may  attend  on  him  in  his  illness. 
No  servant  shall  serve  him  more  humbly  or 
truly,  than  his  once  happy  and  honored 
Blanche.  Ah,  me  !  How  wildly  do  I  talk ;" 
added  the  Countess,  suddenly  changing  her 
ardent,  impassioned  manner,  to  one  of  strict 
patience  and  submissiveness.  "  Nay,  if  it 
is  my  lord's  will,  it  must  needs  be.  Tell 
him,  gentle  sir,  I  am  ready  to  fulfil  his 
wishes." 

When  Bertram  left  her,  his  lord's  faith- 
less wife,  whom  a  shorty  time  before  he  had 
felt  so  disposed  to  detest  from  his  heart,  he 
found  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  mishke 
her  in  any  manner  ;  nay,  she  had  awakened 
in  him  feelings  of  a  direct  opposite  tendency. 
He  marvelled  a  guilty  woman  could  bear 
such  rigorous  imprisonment  so  long  a  time 
and  it  have  no  evident  effect  on  her,  he  mar- 
velled more,  with  the  knowledge  of  her  infa- 
mous evil  doing,  she  should  wear  so  noble, 
bright  a  countenance  ;  but  all  this  could  not 
erase  from  his  mind  the  impression  of  his 
lord's  narrative.  He  remembered  the  ter- 
ribleness  of  the  wrong  she  had  wantonly 
done  so  noble  a  gentleman,  and  strove  to 


218 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


fortify  his  heart  against  the  entrance  of 
those  feelings,  her  language,  looks,  and 
manner,  had  created  in  him  ;  nevertheless, 
he  found  his  thoughts  taking  to  themselves 
the  shape  of  this  question — "  Surely,  this 
lady,  is  not  so  wicked  as  1  thouglit  her." 

On  returning  to  the  earl,  he  told  him  every 
syllable  the  countess  had  uttered  in  his 
hearing,  at  which  the  former  appeared  ex- 
ceeding moved,  asked  divers  questions,  hur- 
riedly and  anxiously,  as  to  how  she  spoke, 
and  what  she  had  said  ;  and  every  answer 
manifestly  did  the  more  increase  his  uneasi- 
ness. For  a  while  he  seemed  lost  in  thought 
— but  it  was  easy  to  see  from  the  changing 
expression  of  his  aspect — his  deep  sighing, 
and  violent  hard  breathing,  that  some  such 
struggle  as  had  been  but  too  common  with 
him,  was  going  on  in  his  nature.  Bertram 
stood  observing  him  with  a  sincere,  sweet 
sympathy,  expressed  in  every  feature  of  his 
countenance;  but  saying  never  a  word, 
knowing  how  useless  was  speech  on  such 
occasions.  After  a  time  the  Earl  recovered 
sufficiently  to  express  what  he  would  have 
done. 

"  Motliinks,  'tis  full  time  this  punishment 
should  cease,"  said  he  in  a  somewhat  fal- 
tering voice.  "  I  can  endure  it  no  longer. 
This  marvellous  sweet  patience  of  hers 
subdues  me.  My  vengeance  is  gone,  of  my 
honor  I  am  careless.  Go,  tell  her,  she  is  | 
free  to  go  where  she  will,  so  long  as  I  may 
never  have  sight  of  her  again." 

The  page  hastened  to  do  his  lord's  bid- 
ding, his  thoughts  by  the  way,  busy  in  the 
entertainment   of    every  possible  prejudice  I 
against    that    false    bad  woman  who  had 
brought   sucli  fearful   sufferings    upon   her 
generous,  noble-hearted  husband.     He  de-  j 
termined  to  look  on  her  as  a  very  monster —  j 
an  ungrateful,  base  creature,  lost  to  every  ■ 
sense  of  womanly  excellence  ;  and  expedite  ' 
her  removal  from  the  mansion  by  all  means 
in  his  power.     He  presented  himself  to  the 
lady  a  second  time,  and  despite  of  his  recent 
stern  determinations,  delivered  his  message 
as   gently   as   though   he  spoke    to    some 
person  great  in  his  respect.     The  Countess 
heard  it  in    evident   emotion.     Her   cheek 
grew  pale  and  tiien  red,  of  a  sudden — her  ; 
lips  quivered  somewhut — but  in  the  end  her 
whole   countenance  expressed  a  lofty  pride 
and  noble  majesty,  which  made  her  young 
companion  marvel  more  than  ever. 

"  it  cannot  be ;"  replied  she  at  last. 
"Were  I  again  to  appear  in  the  public  eye, 
perchance  my  lord's  reputation  would  suffer ; 
he,  having  for  so  long  a  period  allowed  it  to 
he  closed  against  mo.     If  my  character  hath 


I  gone,  my  death  is  no  fiction.  To  what  my 
lord  hath  sentenced  me  I  patiently  submit. — 
!  Unless  I  can  be  wholly  restored  to  his  affec- 
I  tions,  which,  methinks,  'tis  vain  to  hope,  I 
wish  here  to  live  out  my  days,  to  the  last  his 
poor  prisoner,  and  humble,  loving  wife  :  and 
I  will  pray  for  him  very  earnestly  on  the 
knees  of  my  heart  he  may  enjoy  every  man- 
ner of  happiness  that  is  most  to  his  liking. 
I  beseech  you,  gentle  sir,  tell  him  this  much 
from  me — that  I  will  endure  with  all  proper 
submissiveness,  whatever  he  shall  think  of 
letting  the  world  know  of  my  existence  :  and 
the  only  favor  I  would  ask  of  him  is,  that 
he  will  let  me  here  remain  till  I  have  become 
the  thing  he  hatb  feigned." 

Again  there  was  a  change  in  the  page's 
thoughts  of  his  lord's  faithless  wife ;  his  feel- 
ings were  now  in  her  favor  as  strong  as  ad- 
miration could  make  them.  Her  language, 
her  look,  her  bearing,  savored  so  marvellous 
little  of  guilty  consciousness,  that  he  could 
not  help  saying  to  himself  on  leaving  her, 
"  Surely  this  lady  cannot  have  done  the 
wickedness  with  which  she  is  charged." 
He  acquainted  the  Earl  with  wiiat  had  pas- 
sed in  consequence  of  his  message,  where- 
upon, the  unhappy  man  seemed  more  moved 
than  before,  for  he  presently  broke  out  into 
a  wonderful  great  passion  of  self  accusa- 
tions. 

"  Every  word  of  hers  cometh  upon  me 
like  a  scourge  !"  exclaimed  he,  when  his 
frenzy  had  somewhat  abated,  "  I  have  made 
a  terrible  mistake  ;  T  have  been  torturing  of 
myself  all  this  while,  instead  of  punishing 
her.  O  reputation !  reputation !  what  a 
poor  idol  of  brass  thou  art  !"  And  in  this 
strain  went  he  on,  so  much  to  the  exceeding 
grief  of  his  faithful  Bertram,  that  he  knew 
not  what  judgment  to  come  to.  He  could 
not  believe  his  lord  had  misstated  to  him 
anything,  having  had  such  manifold  proofs 
of  his  extreme  honorableness  of  nature, 
therefore  he  must  needs  consider  the  Count- 
ess to  be  the  very  basest  wretch  breathing ; 
and  yet  he  could  not  think  ill  of  tliat  lady, 
after  having  beheld  in  her  as  he  had  beha- 
vior so  thoroughly  oj)posed  to  an  unworthy 
disposition.  He  considered  much  of  the 
matter ;  his  reflections  suddenly  turned  into 
a  new  channel,  and,  as  he  left  the  chamber, 
he  put  this  question  to  hiniself — '•  Surely, 
there  is  some  huge  villainy  at  the  bottom  of 
these  woeful  doings  !" 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


219 


CHAPTER  XXXni. 

This  company  were  lightly  the  lewdest  in 
the  land — apt  for  pilfery,  perjury,  forgery,  or 
any  other  villainy. 

Greene  {Groatsworth  of  Witte.) 

"  Oh  twine  fresh  roses  round  thy  brow 

And  pledge  the  wine-cup  liigh  ; 
Leave  fears  and  cares  to  misers'  heirs, 

Leave  tears  to  those  who  sigh. 
For  is  there  neath  heav'n  a  bliss  so  divine 
As   that  which  now  beams  in  the    sparkling 
wine  ? 

Brighter  than  gems 
In  kings'  diadems, 
And  fragrant  as  buds  upon  odorous  stems. 

Then  fill  to  the  brim  !     Fill  to  the  brim  ! 
Fill  whilst  such  joys  on  the  green  earth  abound, 
'Ere    Pleasure   grow   pensive   or  Friendship 
look  dim. 

Fill  to  the  brini  around ! 

"  Oh  twine  fresh  roses  round  thy  brow. 

And  pledge  me  once  again  : 
Till  we  have  quaff'd  the  rosy  draught 

And  warmed  the  heart  and  brain. 
Our  life  is  but  short  and  our  pleasures  but  few, 
jVud  time  makes  us  old  when  our  youth  is  but 
new  :  — 

Wine  then  alone, — 
To  all  be  it  known, — 
Can  grant  us  new  life  and  a  world  of  our  own. 

Then  iill  to  the  brim  !     Fill  to  the  brim  I 
Fill  whilst  such  joys  on  the  green  earth  abound. 
Ere   Pleasure  grows  pensive   or  Friendship 
looks  dim. 

Fill  to  the  brim  around  ! 

"  Bravo,  Robin  !  O,  my  life,  our  sweet 
Robin  is  a  brave  songster !" 

'•  Excellent  well  sung,  as  I  live.  Master 
Greene  ;  and  as  Kit  Marlowe  most  aptly 
cuUeth  thee,  thou  art  our  own  delectable 
sweet  Robin." 

"  Nay,  Chettle,  we  will  not  have  him  so 
mean  a  bird  ;  he  is  a  swan  at  the  very  least." 

'•  Ay,  truly.  Master  Lodge,  by  this  hand, 
a  good  thougiit.  A  swan — a  very  swan ! 
What  sayest,  Peele  ?  What  sayest,  Kyd  ? 
What  sayest,  Nash  ?  Is  not  Greene  as  right 
famous  a  swan  at  singing,  as  though  he 
were  the  mighty  Jove  himself,  going  a  bird- 
ing  after  the  delicate  fashion  told  in  the  old 
story  ?" 

"Prithee  keep  to  the  Robin,  good  Kit!" 
replied  the  singer,  in  the  same  merry  humor 
with  his  boisterous  companions  ;  methinks 
the  conceit  of  the  swan  is  somewhat  dan- 
gerous, it  being  a  bird  so  nigh  in  feather  to 
a  goose." 

"  Nay,  nay,  there  is  a  huge  difference  in 
the  holding  of  the  head,"  cried   Kit  Mar- 


lowe, laughingly ;  "  so  if  it  chance  to  be 
thou  art  only  but  a  goose,  if  thou  wilt  but 
have  thy  neck  stretched,  thou  shalt  presently 
be  the  braver  bird,  beyond  all  contradic- 
tion ?" 

"  Then  is  Tyburn  a  choice  place  for 
swanhopping  ?"  observed  Lodge,  amid  the 
uproarious  mirth  of  his  associates. 

"More  wine!  more  wine!  tapster!" 
bawled  Chettle  ;  "  'Slight !  after  such  mov- 
ing praise  of  thy  liquor,  thou  shouldst  empty 
thy  casks  for  us,  and  charge  nothing." 

"  Ay.  by  Bacchus,  that  thou  shouldst,  out 
of  sheer  gratitude,'"  added  Nash. 

"  Truly  my  masters  ;  and  for  mine  own 
part,  I  care  not,"  said  a  miserable-looking, 
threadbare  knave,  in  a  most  abject  manner, 
"  indeed,  I  care  not  in  any  sort  of  manner ; 
yet,  as  I  cannot  live  unless  I  sell  my  liquor 
at  some  profit,  I  humbly  beseech  your  wor- 
ships, pardon  me,  that  I  would  rather  live 
and  sell,  than  give  away  and  be  ruined." 

These  were  a  party  of  play-writers,  met 
together  round  a  rough  table,  in  a  mean 
chamber  of  a  common  inn,  near  the  Globe 
playhouse,  on  the  Bankside  :  they  seemed  to 
be  much  alike  as  regarded  their  humors,  be- 
ing a  set  of  as  wild,  licentious,  unbridled 
roysterers,  as  might  be  met  with  in  any  tav- 
ern in  Christendom.  It  was  manifest  on  a 
little  stay  with  them,  that  they  had  more  wit 
than  discretion,  and  less  honesty  than  either ; 
for  their  talk  was  either  of  tricks  they  had 
practised,  when  reduced  to  any  shifts,  or 
abuse  of  certain  players  they  misliked,  or 
slander  of  certain  writers,  whose  success 
they  envied.  Their  dress  smacked  of  a 
tawdy  gentility ;  in  some  instances  showing 
signs  of  shabbiness,  that  could  not  be  hid,  in 
others  of  e.xpense  that  could  not  be  afforded  ; 
for  these  worthies  were  of  that  unthinking 
sort,  who  feast  to-day  and  fast  to-morrow ; 
carry  their  purses  well  lined  on  a  Monday, 
and  ere  the  week  hath  half  gone,  have  not  a 
groat.  So  improvident  were  they,  that  they 
would  have  their  canary  for  an  hour  or  two's 
enjoyment,  though  they  should  be  reduced  to 
take  their  custom  to  the  water-bearer,  for  a 
month  after  ;  and  of  so  little  principle  were 
the  greater  number,  that  as  long  as  they 
could  get  such  indulgences  as  they  most  af- 
fected, which  were  often  of  an  exceeding 
disreputable  sort,  tliey  cared  not  a  jot  whe- 
ther they  had  or  had  not  in  their  power  the 
means  of  paying.  Nevertheless,  divers  of 
them  were  men  of  approved  talent  in  their 
art ;  but  this,  methinks,  should  draw  on  them 
greater  censures  ;  for  when  men  have  know- 
ledge, and  use  it  not  honorably,  they  should 
be  accounted  infinitely  more  blameable,  than 
such  as  offend  through  ignorance. 


220 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


"  Ha !  ha  1  by  this  ligrht  a  most  admirabh'^ 
conceited  jest,  my  dear  boy,"  exclaimed 
Greene,  who,  by  tlie  way,  was  a  marvellous 
different  person  from  Tom  Greene  the  player. 
"  But  Wiiat  dost  tljir.lv  of  this  for  a  goodly 
example  of  coney-catching.  There  hath 
been  a  certain  pnblishcr  to  me,  who  is  known 
well  enough  to  all  here,  requesting  of  me  to 
write  him  something.  I  asked  of  him  of 
what  kind,  and  thereupon  he  spoke  so  mov- 
ingly of  the  great  good — to  say  nought  of 
the  great  profits  that  come  of  pious  writings, 
that  on  the  instant  I  offered  to  compose  a 
repentance  of  my  monstrous  sinful  life, 
which  should  be  so  forcibly  penned  that  the 
wickedest  persons  that  live  should  take  ex- 
ample of  it,  and  straightway  fall  into  godli- 
ness. At  this  surely  no  man  was  ever  in 
such  huge  delight  as  was  my  saint-like  sel- 
ler of  books ;  and  he  offered  me  such  fair 
terms  for  a  pamjjhlet  of  this  tendency,  that 
I  closed  with  him  presently.  Since  then,  I 
have  commenced  my  repentance  ;  and  I  can 
say  most  truly  few  have  ever  repented  them 
their  sins  with  such  profit  as  have  I  ;  but 
the  jest  of  it  lieth  in  this — that  my  gain  by 
such  labor  must  needs  lead  me  into  fresh 
outbreaks,  which  at  my  need  will  form 
goodly  materials  lor  another  repentance,  still 
more  cunningly  to  be  wrought  out  for  the 
edification  of  strayed  sheep,  which  will  again 
enrich  my  exchequer  for  advancing  me 
through  a  new  career  of  revelry,  to  be  fol- 
lowed of  course  by  the  most  pitiful  re])ent- 
ance  of  any.  And  in  this  manner  mean  I 
to  live  sinning  and  repenting,  and  repenting 
and  sinning,  till  there  shall  be  no  good  to  be 
reaped  by  it,  either  for  myself  or  any  other." 

Riotous  shouts  of  laughter,  and  a  famous 
store  of  sharp  witty  saying,  not  worthy  of 
being  written,  accompanied  this  speech  ;  and 
there  was  not  one  there  present  who  did  not 
appear  to  regard  it  as  fine  a  jest  as  ever  they 
heard. 

"  O'  my  word,  but  this  is  dehcate  coney- 
catching  indeed  !"  cried  Nash,  joining 
heartily  in  the  same  humor.  "  When  I  am 
hard  pushed  1  will  not  fail  following  such 
exquisite  proper  example ;  and  I  only  hope 
I  shall  have  grace  sufficient  to  turn  it  to  as 
notable  great  advantage." 

"This  showetli  the  utter  foolishness  of 
such  matters,"  exclaimed  Kit  Marlowe — a 
noted  infidel.  "  And  proveth  that  if  you 
bait  your  discourse  sutticiently  with  relig- 
ion, you  may  have  in  your  power  as  many 
gulls  as  can  get  within  reach  of  it.  But 
hearken  to  the  rare  trick  I  played  my  hostess 
when  I  was  reduced  to  such  shifts  for  lodg- 
ings I  scarce  knew  where  I  should  find  my 
lying  for  the  next  day.     This  woman  was 


I  coarse  and  fat,  and  a  desperate  shrew  ;  and 
j  I  being  somewhat  backward  in  paying  her 
1  pestilent  charges,  she  opened  her  batterj'  on 
me  at  all  hours,  and  at  last  swore  very 
roundly  I  should  to  prison  and  out  of  her 
house,  did  I  not  settle  what  I  owed  by  a  cer- 
tain day.  Now  it  fortunately  chanced  so  to 
'  hap,  her  villainous  house  had  two  doors,  one 
front  and  one  back,  and  she  being  usually 
in  a  front  chamber,  put  me  upon  [)rartising 
my  wit  in  sufh  a  manner  as  should  most 
punish  her,  and  most  enrich  me.  So  I  pre- 
vailed on  a  broker  of  my  acquaintance  to 
purchase  of  me  all  the  goods  in  my  lodging, 
on  the  condition  that  they  should  be  removed 
when  I  desired.  Having  got  tlic  money  the 
day  before  the  day  appointed  for  my  JJaying 
the  grasping  old  avarice  my  hostess,  I  went 
to  her  chamber,  and  told  her  1  had  come  to 
settle  with  her,  her  charges,  which  put  her  in- 
to so  rare  a  humor,  that  I  kept  her  a  full  hour 
talking  and  jesting,  with  the  money  in  my 
hand.  Then  thinking  the  broker  had  as  I 
designed,  removed  the  old  dame's  chattels 
by  the  back  door  and  got  clear  off,  I  begged 
she  would  let  me  have  of  her  some  sort  of 
memorandum  of  the  cancelling  of  my  debt, 
and  quickly  commenced  counting  of  my 
money  on  the  table.  My  request  she  thought 
so  reasonable,  she  lost  not  a  moment  in  seek- 
ing to  gratify  it ;  but  the  instiint  I  heard  her 
proceeding  to  an  upper  room  where  I  knew 
she  kept  her  pen  and  ink,  I  whipped  up  the 
money  and  was  out  of  the  front  door  ere  I 
could  draw  breath.  Truly,  it  must  have 
been  most  absolute  and  irresistable  sport,  to 
have  noted  the  visage  of  my  chap-fallen 
hostess  when  she  discovered  not  only  the 
loss  of  her  money  she  was  so  desperate 
about,  but  the  departure  of  her  lodger  leav- 
ing of  his  lodging  bare  to  the  very  walls." 
This  narrative  was  received  with  more 
riotous  acclamations  than  the  preceding, 
and  divers  others  of  the  company  told  the 
like  sort  of  tales,  to  the  excessive  mirth  of 
the  rest,  who  looked  upon  them  as  most  ad- 
mirable jests ;  and  thus  they  kept  drinking 
and  showing  of  their  several  humors.  After 
sometime  tliey  commenced  talking  of  the 
players,  and  not  one  was  named  who  in  their 
thinking  possessed  the  slightest  share  of 
merit.  Greene  was  a  mere  ape — the  elder 
Burbage  a  scare-crow — the  younger  a  poor 
fellow  that  marred  everything  he  spoke, 
for  lack  of  sense  to  know  the  meaning  on't, 
I  and  Hemings  and  Condell  very  twins  of 
stupidncss,  who  could  do  nought  but  strut 
ancl  fume,  and  blunder  through  such  parts 
as  they  undertook  to  play  ;  and  so  they  pro- 
j  ceeded  with  nigh  upon  all  the  players, 
I  accompanying  their  opinions  with  marvel- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


221 


Ions  lamentations  their  plays  should  be  so  l 
ill  handled. 

"  Hast  marked  this  new  player,  my  mas- 
ter ?"  inquired  Greene.  j 
"  What,   him    they   call    Shakspeare  ?" 
asked  Marlowe.  { 

"  Ay,"  answered  his  companion.  "  Didst 
ever  note  so  senseless  foolish  a  person  ? 
Marry,  if  there  shall  be  found  in  him  a 
greater  commodity  of  brains  than  may  serve 
liim  to  truss  his  points  withal,  I  have  an 
intinite  lack  of  penetration." 

"  Slight,  my  dog  would  make  a  better 
player!"  exclaimed  Marlow  contemptuous- 
ly. '•  Didst  ever  see  any  finger-post  hold 
itself  so  stiffly  ?  Didst  ever  find  a  drunken 
tinker  so  splutter  his  words  !  He  hath  a 
little  grace  in  his  action  as  a  costard-mon- 
ger's jackass  ;  and  as  for  his  aspect,  I  could 
get  as  much  dignity  out  of  a  three-legged 
stool." 

'•  Well,  well,  he  cannot  do  us  any  great 
harm  by  his  playing,"  observed  Lodge.  "  He 
is  only  put  into  the  very  poorest  parts  that 
are  written." 

"  Which  he  maketli  a  monstrous  deal 
poorer  by  his  wretched  performance,"  added 
Greene. 

"  But  who  is  this  Shakspeare  ?  inquired 
Nash. 

"  A  very  clown,"  replied  Marlowe.  "  A 
fellow  tliat  hath  left  the  plough's  tail  and 
his  brother  clods  of  the  soil,  in  such  utter 
conceit  of  himself  as  to  imagine  he  shall 
become  a  famous  player." 

"  He  deserveth  the  whipping-post  for  his 
monstrous  impudence,"  said  Peele. 

"  Give  him  a  cap  and  bells,  and  dress  him 
in  motley,"  added  Kyd. 

"  Nay,  I  doubt  he  hath  even  wit  enough 
to  pass  tor  a  fool,"  cried  Greene,  amid  the 
contemptuous  laughter  of  his  companions  ; 
and  so  went  they  on  turning  the  edge  of 
their  wits  upon  the  new  player,  till  the  door 
opening,  there  entered  with  young  Burbage 
tlie  very  person  they  were  so  sharp  upon. 
In  an  instant  the  whole  company  hailed  "  the 
poor  fellov/  that  marred  everything  he  spoke, 
for  lack  of  sense  to  know  the  meaning  on't," 
as  though  none  could  be  so  well  esteemed  of 
them. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  my  prince  of  players  !" 
cried  Marlowe. 

"  Excellent  Dick,  I  drink  thy  health,"  ex- 
claimed Greene  in  the  same  extreme  friend- 
liness of  manner. 

"  A  pint  of  wine,  tapster,  for  Master  Bur- 
bage !"  shouted  Lodge,  who  had  a  new  play 
m  hand,  and  tijought  it  good  policy  to  be  in 
a.  generous  humor  with  the  manager's  son. 
"Truly    a  good  thought,"  added  Nash, 


who  was  more  famous  for  commending  of 
another's  generosity  than  of  taking  it  as  an 
example.  "  It  would  by  a  notable  remiss- 
ness in  us,  to  one  to  whose  admirable  choice 
playing  we  stand  so  much  indebted  for  the 
success  of  our  play,  were  we  not  at  all  times 
to  welcome  him  with  open  arms." 

"  Truly,  I  am  beholden  to  you  greatly,"  re- 
plied young  Burbage,  sitting  down  amongst 
them,  by  the  side  of  his  companion.  "  I 
shall  be  glad  enough  I  warrant  you,  to  do 
my  best  in  your  honorable  service,  in  espe- 
cial when  it  cometh  to  be  followed  by  such 
fair  wages.  But  your  bountiful  goodness 
hath  emboldened  me  to  ask  a  liberal  welcome 
for  my  friend  here,  Will  Shakspeare,  whose 
true  social  qualities,  perchance,  will  lead 
you,  ere  long,  to  thank  me  for  his  acquaint- 
ance." Thereupon  every  one  of  the  com- 
pany greeted  the  stranger  with  as  absolute 
cordiality  as  ever  was  seen. 

"  O'  my  word,  1  have  taken  great  note  of 
you.  Master  Shakspeare,"  exclaimed  Mar- 
lowe. "  You  promise  well,  sir ;  by  this  light 
you  do  !  I  have  not  seen  a  young  player 
take  to  his  art  so  readily  since  I  first  beheld 
a  play." 

"  Lideed  you  have  the  requisites,  young 
sir,  of  a  complete  master  of  playing,"  added 
Greene.  "  You  will  shine.  You  will  be 
more  famous  than  any  of  your  day.  You 
will  sliow  the  whole  world  how  far  an  Eng- 
lish player  can  exceed  all  that  hath  been 
done  of  the  ancients."  The  others  followed 
in  the  same  vein,  as  if  one  was  striving  to 
exceed  the  other  in  the  extravagance  of 
panegyric  :  to  this  the  young  player  replied 
very  modostly,  as  he  at  that  moment  believed 
them  to  be  sincere.  This  modest  manner 
of  his  seemed  to  convey  to  his  new  associates 
an  idea  that  he  was  of  a  poor  spirit,  as  well 
as  vain  enough  to  take  to  himself  anything 
in  the  shape  of  compliment,  so  they  com- 
menced covertly  making  of  him  their  butt, 
passing  sly  jests  at  his  expense,  and  in  pre- 
tended compliments  seeking  to  be  terribly 
satirical ;  all  which  he  took  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  seemed  to  strengthen  them  in  their 
small  opinion  of  him.  Doubtless,  this  made 
them  somewhat  bolder  with  their  wits. 

"  I  pray  you  now,  listen  to  me.  Master 
Countryman,"  said  Marlowe,  as  if  with  a 
monstrous  show  of  affectionateness.  "  I 
will  give  you  famous  advice,  I  promise  you. 
As  to  your  walk,  methinks  'tis  well  enough 
— it  showeth  at  least  you  are  inchned  to  put 
your  best  leg  foremost,  if  you  knew  which 
it  was ;  bvit  methinks  you  are  somewhat  too 
long  in  making  up  your  mind  which  should 
have  precedence.  As  to  your  look,  let  it 
pass — it  cannot  be  bettered — I  defy  any  one 


222 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAIvSPEARE. 


to  show  such  a  face  for  a  player.  Then  for 
your  arms — to  make  them  swing  hke  the 
sails  of  a  windmill,  is  a  new  grace  in  motion, 
and,  I  doubt  not  will  take  exceedingly  with 
the  groundlings :  but,  perchance  of  the  two 
styles  you  most  aftcct,  tliat  in  which  you 
seemed  yon  were  holding  of  a  plough,  is  the 
most  delicately  natural.  I  commend  it 
wondrously,  only  I  would  have  you  turn  out 
your  elbows  more  than  you  do — it  sccmeth 
as  if  you  determined  to  make  for  yourself 
elbow-room.  Lastly,  of  your  voice — O'  my 
life,  I  never  heard  a  carter  with  a  better 
voice ;  and  the  way  you  deliver  your  speech- 
es, as  though  you  were  talking  to  a  horse, 
must  be  intinitely  effective  on  a  stage :  but 
I  woidd  have  you  speak  louder — let  the  ap- 
prentices in  the  topmost  scaffold  know  you 
have  lungs,  and  can  use  them  to  some  pur- 
pose. To  keep  up  a  good  bawhng  is  highly 
commendable." 

"Ay  indeed,  that  is  it,"  added  Greene, 
after  the  same  fashion :  "  some  there  are  of 
the  sock  and  buskin  who  play  a  feeble  old 
man  witli  the  throat  of  a  boatswain  ;  but 
when  you  come  on  as  a  courtier,  looking  so 
much  the  sturdy  hind,  one  fancieth  every 
moment  you  will  be  feeding  of  hogs  or 
thrashing  of  corn,  which  to  my  thinking  is 
exceeding  more  wonderful." 

Others  of  their  companions  went  on  in  the 
same  biting  humor,  the  object  of  it  all  the 
whilst,  to  the  marvelling  of  young  Burbage, 
who  saw  the  drift,— taking  what  they  said 
with  a  show  of  notable  simplicity,  without 
offering  a  reply.  At  last  when  he  thought 
they  had  exhausted  their  wit  he  spoke. 

"  [  thank  you  heartily  my  masters,  for 
your  excellent  counsel,"  replied  he  very 
gravely.  "  Believe  me  I  do  not  undervalue 
it,  knowing  that  the  very  meanest  things 
that  breatlie  may  oft  do  a  wondrous  fine 
service— as  witness  the  cackling  of  the 
geese  that  saved  Rome.  Some  of  you  have 
been  good  enough  in  commending  of  my 
perfections,  to  speak  famously  of  several  of 
the  notablest  parts  of  my  body  ;  but  divers 
qualities  of  them  have  been  left  untold  :  the 
which,  for  the  lack  of  a  better  chronicler,  I 
will  now  seek  to  give  you  some  notion  of. 
He  who  spoke  so  movingly  of  my  legs,  forgot 
to  add  that  on  an  occasion,  they  could  kick 
an  impudent  shallow  coxcomb  to  his  heart's 
content.  Of  my  face  it  is  as  God  made  it. 
Perchance  it  would  have  been  better  gifted, 
had  any  of  such  persons  as  are  here  given 
it  the  benefit  of  tlieir  greater  skill,  for  I 
doubt  not  I  could  prove  in  a  presently,  some 
of  you  possess  a  very  marvellous  facility  in 
the   making  of  faces.     As   for   my   arms, 


them,  I  having  in  me  so  much  of  the  sturdy 
hind;  but  though  sometimes  it  is  my  hap  to 
come  where  the  hogs  feed  themselves,  the 
thrashing  part  of  my  supposed  duty  I  am 
ready  enough  to  perform,  as  long  as  there  is 
such  necessity  for  it  as  there  appeareth  at 
present.  And  with  regard  to  my  voice, 
Master  Marlowe,  if  I  have  in  my  speech  at 
times  past  appeared,  as  though  1  were  talk- 
ing to  a  horse  ;  surely,  at  this  moment,  there 
is  in  it  a  notable  likelihood  I  am  speaking  to 
an  ass." 

No  speech  was  ever  received  with  such 
astonishment  by  any  company,  as  the  pre- 
ceding. Every  man  of  them  seemed  as 
much  confounded  as  though  they  had  raised 
a  hornet ;  and,  as  tlie  concluding  sentences 
were  so  pointedly  directed  to  die  foremost 
of  them  in  their  sharp  attack  upon  the  so 
despised  "  Master  Countryman,"  he  was 
manifestly  the  most  touched  by  it  of  them 
all. 

"Fellow,  dost  adddress  gentlemen  in  this 
style  ?"  exclaimed  he,  as  if  half  inclined  to 
be  in  a  rage. 

"  Truly  I  think  not,"  was  the  cutting 
reply. 

"  Nay,  'tis  all  a  jest  of  his.  Master  Mar- 
lowe," said  young  Burbage,  endeavoring  to 
keep  the  discouifitted  wits  in  something  like 
good  humor,  "  he  is  t!ie  very  admirablest 
fellow  at  such  things  that  can  be  found 
anywhere  ;  and  try  him  at  it  when  you  will, 
you  shall  find  him  so  expert  at  his  weapon, 
there  is  no  getting  the  better  of  him." 

"  O'  my  word,  I  cannot  say  much  about 
getting  the  better  of  me,"  observed  William 
iShakspeare,  laughingly.  "  But  can  I  serve 
any  of  this  worthy  company,  assuredly  they 
shall  have  the  best  of  w  hat  ability  I  "have." 
Such  of  the  worthy  company  that  had  been 
in  any  way  inclined  for  a  quarrel,  after  suffi- 
cient note  of  "  the  sturdy  hind,"  thought 
proper  to  look  as  if  they  were  famously 
amused  ;  and  in  honest  truth,  whether  it 
was  from  his  natural  cheerful  humor,  or  a 
desire  to  conciliate,  the  former  so  entertained 
them  with  his  delectable  choice  wit,  that 
presently  the  whole  place  was  kept  in  a  roar 
by  him.  In  the  midst  of  this  the  tapster 
came  and  wliispered  to  Master  Greene. 

"Oh,  let  him  up,  let  him  up,"  replied  he: 
then  turning  to  the  company,  added,  seeming 
in  an  exceeding  pleasant  mood,  "  Here  is  a 
certain  well-known  honest  friend  of  mine, 
coming  to  join  us,  one  Cutting  Ball — he 
hath  done  me  many  services.  Indeed,  a 
right  excellent  good  fellow  is  he,  and  a 
useful." 

"  I  promise  you,"  replied  Marlowe,  with  a 


doubtless  they  have  a  sort  of  swing  with   knowing  wink,  "Cutty  standetli  by  you,  out 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


223 


of  return  for  your  standing  by  his  fair  sis- 
ter." 

"  Let  that  be  as  it  may,"  cried  the  other, 
joining  in  the  general  laugh,  "  but  to  Master 
Ball  I  owe  much ;  for  he  is  so  vigilant  a 
watch,  that  he  alloweth  not  a  pestilent  bai- 
liff to  shew  his  nose  within  a  mile  of  me  ; 
and  if  anv  should  chance  to  come,  seeking  to 
make  me  their  prisoner.  Cutty  and  his  fel- 
lows do  so  pay  them  my  debts,  that  they  are 
glad  enou-jh  to  'scape  with  broken  crowns, 
for  lack  of  better  coin." 

These  remarks  were  put  an  end  to  by  the 
entrance  of  the  object  of  them  ;  but,  to  the 
surprise  of  all  present,  no  sooner  had  he  en- 
tered, than  young  Shakspeare  jumped  on  his 
legs,  stared  at  Cutting  Ball,  and  Cutting 
Ball  stared  at  him,  though  in  a  manner  as  if 
Cutty  was  somewhat  confused. 

"I  greet  you  well,  Captain  Sack!"  ex- 
claimed the  tbrmer  at  last ;  "  I  pray  you  tell 
me,  how  are  your  worthy,  honorable  com- 
panions, Master  Sugarsop,  and  my  Lord  Cin- 
namon ?  Truly  I  should  have  been  right 
glad  had  you  brought  them  with  you." 
Then  addressing  Greene,  he  continued  in 
something  of  the  same  strain,  evidently  to 
the  prodigious  marvelling  of  the  company, 
"  Marry,  Master  (ireene,  but  this  same  hon- 
est friend  of  yours,  and  I,  are  old  acquaint- 
ance. Methinks  if  I  could  forget  that 
stained  velvet  doublet,  I  could  not  put  out  of 
my  memory  a  visage  that  hath  so  many 
marks  to  know  it  by.  In  brief,  your  honest 
friend,  with  two  others  of  a  like  lionesty,  de- 
spoiled me  a  short  distance  from  Loadon,  on 
the  Uxbridge  Road ;  and  I  pray  you,  make 
your  honest  friend  return  me  the  things  he 
robbed  me  of,  else  shall  I  be  obliged  to  in- 
troduce your  honest  friend  to  one  Master 
Constable,  who,  if  your  honest  friend  shall 
get  his  deserts,  may  chance  to  assist  him  in 
making  the  acquaintance  of  one  Master 
Hangman." 

At  the  hearing  this,  it  was  difficult  to 
say  which  looked  the  most  confounded. 
Master  Greene  or  his  lionest  friend  ;  and  as 
for  the  rest,  few  of  them  seemed  to  take  the 
matter  very  pleasantly. 

"  Plague  on't.  Cutty,  how  couldst  act  so 
unworthily  !"  cried  Marlowe,  as  if  in  a  fa- 
mous indignation. 

"  'Slight  man,  'tis  monstrous !"  exclaimed 
Nash,  looking  to  be  exceeding  angered. 

"  O'  my  life  !  had  I  known  thee  to  be  so 
desperate  a  rogue,  Cutty,  I'd  have  been 
hanged  ere  I  would  have  tolerated  thy  infa- 
mous company  !"  said  Lodge,  in  a  like  fash- 
ion. 

"  S'blood  !  but  you  must  give  up  what 
you  have   so  basely  taken,  Master  Ball," 


cried  Kyd,  "  we  will  tolerate  no  such  vil- 
lainy.    Restore  your  ill-got  booty,  fellow." 

"  Ay,  truly,"  added  Greene,  as  stern- 
ly as  any  of  them.  "  Give  Master  Shaks- 
peare his  goods  again,  I  prithee.  O, 
my  word  !  I  am  ashamed  thou  shouldst  act 
with  so  thorough  a  disgracefulness.  I  in- 
sist that  tliou  give  back  every  tittle  of  what 
thou  hast  taken." 

'•  Of  course  !  of  course  !"  shouted  one  and 
all. 

"  I  do  confess,  I  made  bold  with  certain 
things  belonging  to  this  good  gentleman," 
replied  Cutty  Ball,  seeing  there  was  no  use 
in  denying  the  robbery  ;  "  but  had  I  known 
lie  was  a  friend,  I  would  have  despoiled  my- 
self rather  than  have  touched  ought  that  be- 
longed to  him." 

"  I  thank  you.  Captain  Sack,  or  Cutty 
Ball,  or  whatever  your  name  may  be,"  an- 
swered young  Shakspeare;  "but  1  should 
thank  you  more  would  you  be  so  good  as 
give  mo  back  those  same  things  ;  for  truly  I 
stand  so  much  in  need  of  them,  I  shall  be 
forced  to  get  them  with  the  assistance  of 
such  persons  as  I  just  now  promised  to  make 
you  acquainted  with,  should  you  not  return 
them  speedily." 

"  Ay,  without  doubt,  and  I  will  see  to  it 
myself,"  exclaimed  Marlowe  and  others  of 
his  companions,  who  appeared  equally  in- 
tent upon  making  the  thief  restore  what  he 
had  stolen. 

"  I'faith,  I  should  be  right  glad  enough 
to  do  it,  honorable  sir,  only  in  honest  truth, 
I  have  them  not,"  said  the  thief. 

"  By  this  hand,  that  shall  never  pass,"  ex- 
claimed Marlowe. 

''  O'  my  life,  I  will  have  thee  get  back 
these  goods,  even  if  thou  hast  parted  with 
them,"  cried  Greene,  with  equal  earnest- 
ness. 

"  Bots  on't,  so  will  I  if  I  can  !"  replied 
Cutty,  somewhat  sharply,  "  although  I  have 
not  the  honest  gentleman's  things,  methinks 
he  shall  not  have  to  go  far  to  find  them  ;  for 
I  have  good  reason  for  knowing.  Master 
Greene  at  this  present  hath  on  one  of  his 
shirts  ;  and  Master  Marlowe  a  pair  of  his 
hose.  Master  Peele  now  weareth  his  falling 
bands  ;  and  Master  Lodge  had  of  me  certain 
other  articles  of  linen,  which  make  up  the 
whole  of  what  I  took." 

Terrible  was  the  confusion  of  these  four 
worthies — who  had  been  so  forward  in  call- 
ing for  restitution,  at  finding  that  they  them- 
selves possessed  the  plunder  :  nevertheless, 
with  the  best  grace  they  could,  they  prom- 
ised every  thing  should  be  restored  to  the 
lawful  owner,  protesting  most  vehemently, 
that  when  they  accepted  them,  they  beheved 


224 


TIIE  YOUTH  OF  SIIAKSPEARE. 


them  to  be  honestly  come  by;  all  which 
their  friend  Cutty  Ball  heard  with  an  easy 
impudency,  that  did  in  some  manner  belie 
their  assertions ;  and  the  young  player, 
though  having  penetration  enough  to  spy 
into  the  real  nature  of  the  transaction,  ap- 
peared to  be  satisfied.  Soon  after  Master 
Burbage  whispering  to  Lodge  that  the  read- 
ing of  his  new  play  was  fixed  for  twelve  o' 
the  clock,  took  his  leave  of  the  party,  taking 
his  friend  with  him. 

"  I  thank  thee,  Will,  for  the  very  proper 
castigation  of  those  fellows,"  exclaimed 
young  Burbage,  laughing  heartily  ;  "  me- 
thinks  they  would  now  as  lief  meddle  with  a 
mad  dog,  as  play  their  saucy  humors  on 
thee.  Surely,  never  were  a  set  of  insolent 
biting  jackanapes  so  quickly  brought  to  their 
marrow-bones." 

"  Truly,  they  chafed  me  somewhat,  or  I 
would  not  have  answered  them  so  sharply," 
replied  his  companion. 

It  may  here  be  proper  to  advertise  the 
reader,  that  the  young  player  had  profited 
nothing  by  his  introduction  to  Sir  Philip 
Sydney,  or  by  his  falling  in  with  his  old 
friends,  Sir  Reginald  and  Sir  Valentine, 
he  not  having  intbrmed  them  of  his  need  be- 
fore they  left  England  for  Flanders.  Nor 
had  his  acquaintance  with  Master  Spenser 
as  yet  availed  him  anything,  for  almost  as 
soon  as  they  became  known  to  each  other, 
that  the  right  famous  poet  had  been  forced 
to  go  a  voyage  to  Ireland.  For  his  becom- 
ing a  player,  he  was  solely  indebted  to  the 
exertions  of  his  schoolfellows,  who  absolute- 
ly forced  their  manager  to  make  him  one  of 
their  company.  This  the  elder  Burbage  did, 
and  with  an  especial  ill  grace,  for  no  man 
relisheth  doing  any  thing  against  his  will ; 
but  it  was  evident  he  had  taken  a  huge  dis- 
like to  the  young  player.  He  put  him  into 
playing  only  such  poor  characters  as  could 
gain  him  no  reputation ;  and  gave  him  for  it 
so  small  a  wage,  that  he  could  not  so  much 
as  find  himself  a  decent  living.  During  all 
this  while  he  had  to  bear  all  manner  of  priva- 
tions, and  hardships  innumerable, — now  at  a 
loss  for  lodging — now  for  victual — and  now 
for  raiment ;  and  yet  making  so  little  show 
of  the  great  straits  to  which  he  was  so  often 
reduced,  that  his  true  friends  knew  it  not  un- 
less by  some  accident  it  came  to  their  know- 
ledge. 

This  sort  of  life  was  a  monstrous  differ- 
ence to  what  his  golden  anticipations  had 
made  out  to  him.  But  he  bore  his  ill-fortune 
with  a  most  cheerful  spirit — still  as  san- 
guine as  ever — believing  he  should  yet 
raise  for  his  dear  children  such  a  heritage 
as  should  enrich  and  ennoble  them  to  the  end 


of  time.  As  soon  as  he  found  himself  in  some 
way  of  settlement,  he  wrote  to  John  a  Combe, 
among  other  things,  inquiring  for  his  off- 
spring with  all  the  eloquence  of  a  fond 
father,  and  of  himself,  merely  saying  there 
was  likelihood  he  should  do  as  well  as  he 
wished  :  in  reply  to  which  he  received  a 
very  comfortable  letter,  marked  with  the 
caustic  sharpness  the  writer  so  much  affec- 
ted, yet  for  all  that,  betraying  such  natural 
goodness  of  heart  as  was  customary  with 
him.  As  the  young  player  expected  from 
his  knowledge  of  her  character,  it  also  in- 
formed him  that  his  wife  assumed  the  bear- 
ing of  one  horribly  ill-used.  This  intelli- 
gence brought  him  to  reflect  on  the  amiable 
sweet  qualities  of  the  accomplished  Mistress 
D'Avenant,  whose  letters  to  him — full  of  fe- 
minine purity  and  highmindedness — now 
formed  the  chiefest  pleasure  his  poor  fortmies 
set  at  his  disposal. 

At  twelve  o'  the  clock  he  was  with  the 
rest  of  the  company,  on  the  stage  assembled 
to  hear  the  reading  of  a  new  play  written  by 
Master  Lodge.  The  elder  Burbage  sat  in  a 
chair,  with  the  MS.  in  his  hand;  his  brother 
players,  the  author  and  divers  of  his  friends 
standing  about  hirn,  or  getting  seats  where 
they  could.  The  whole  place  looked  ex- 
ceeding dismal  and  comfortless.  Below  the 
stage,  where  the  groundlings  were  wont 
to  stand,  was  an  old  woman,  busy  sweeping 
out  tlie  dirt,  bitten  apples,  orange-peel  and 
nut-shells,  which  had  there  been  left.  In 
the  rooms  above,  were  one  or  two  other  such 
remnants  of  humanity,  engaged  in  scouring 
and  cleaning.  From  one  part  of  the  stage 
the  hammer  of  a  carpenter  was  heard,  noisily 
enough  putting  together  the  materials  of  a 
castle, — in  another,  a  painter  was  brushing 
away  in  a  great  hurry,  to  make  his  canvas 
assume  something  of  the  resemblance  of  a 
deep  forest — albeit  it  seemed  the  likeness 
did  not  promise  to  be  very  notable.  Here 
was  a  fellow  on  his  knees,  polishing  of  a  piece 
of  rusty  armor ;  and  there  a  tailor,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  stitching  away  at  a  torn  doub- 
let. The  light  came  in  from  the  open  roof, 
very  brightly ;  but  for  all  that  the  building 
had  a  monstrous  miserable  sort  of  look 
with  it. 

It  was  thus  situated  the  Manager  read  the 
new  play — which  proved  to  be  a  singular 
admixture  of  talent  and  bombast — unnatural 
characters — extravagant  scenes,  and  such  a 
labyrinth  of  a  plot  nothing  could  be  made  of 
it :  yet  despite  of  these  great  blemishes,  ths 
play  lacked  not  merit.  There  was  force  in 
the  language,  and  occasionally  beauty — and 
amid  heaps  of  confused  nonsense,  there  were 
a  few  clever  touches  of  nature  that  appeared 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


225 


the  more  admirable  for  being  so  surrounded  ; 
nevertiieless,  the  chief  players  condemned  it, 
and  the  elder  Burbage  spoke  more  against  it 
tlian  any. 

"  I  think  the  play  would  do  well  enough 
were  it  altered  somewhat ;"  observed  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare. 

"  A  good  jest,  I'faith  !"  exclaimed  tlie 
manager,  sarcastically,  "  what  dost  thou 
know  of  plays,  I  wonder  ?  Marry,  but  'tis 
like  thy  impudency  to  give  an  opinion  on 
such  a  matter !" 

"  Truly,  I  tliink  he  knoweth  as  much  of 
the  matter  as  any  of  us,"  said  Tom  Greene. 

"  Indeed  does  lie  !"  cried  old  Barbage  with 
a  look  of  seeming  great  amazement ;  "  per- 
chance. Master  Clevershakes,  thou  wilt  tliij- 
s elf  essay  to  make  this  play  well  enough  ?" 

"I  doubt  not  1  could  so  make  it;"  rojilied 
the  young  player. 

"  What  intolerable  presumption  !"  ex- 
claimed the  manager.  "  O'  my  life,  Will 
Shaksjieare,  so  vain  a  person  as  tiiou  art, 
never  met  1  in  all  my  days.  Thou  art,  as  it 
were,  new  to  the  stage,  and  yet  thou  talkest 
of  altering  plays  for  the  better,  writ  by  one 
well  used  to  such  writing  !" 

'  I  beseech  you,  Master  Manager,  let  him 
iry  his  hand  at  it,  if  he  will,"  said  Master 
Lodge.  "  If  I  be  not  hugely  mistaken,  we 
shall  have  at  least  some  sport  in  his  akera- 
tions."' 

"  Ay,  let  him  have  it,  Burbage ;"  added 
Tom  Greene  ;  "Will  mast  needs  have  a  fa- 
mous talent  if  he  can  mend  such  a  play  as 
t;;is. 

"  Wilt  take  it  in  hand  ?"  asked  the  man- 
ager. 

"  Gladly,"  replied  young  Shakspeare. 

"  Heaven  help  thee  out  of  thy  conceit !" 
cried  old  Burbage  giving  him  the  MS.  as  he 
rose  from  his  seat.  Some  of  the  players 
laughed — the  authors  sneered,  but  William 
Shakspeare  took  the  despised  play  to  his 
lodgings  full  of  confidence  in  his  own  re- 
sources— and  then  by  altering,  omitting,  and 
adding,  where  he  thought  such  was  most 
needed,  he  after  many  days  study,  made  it  to 
his  mind.  Certes  he  was  glad  of  such  an 
opportunity  to  distinguish  himself,  and  took 
m.arve!lou.s  pains  he  should  do  well  what  lie 
had  undertaken.  At  last  he  brought  back 
the  play,  and  it  getting  to  be  known  what  he 
had  assayed,  there  came  that  day  all  the 
chiefest  play-writers  to  have  a  laugh  at  bis 
expense — even  his  old  schoolfellows  thought 
he  had  promised  to  do  more  than  he  could 
perform. 

'■  I  have  brought  you  here  the  amended 
play  of  Master  Lodge,"  said  the  young 
Shakspeare  to  the  manager — offerin<>'  him 
15 


the  MS.  back  again.  "  Percliance  you  will 
now  be  so  good  as  read  it  in  its  present  state. 

'•  Nay,  an'  you  catch  mc  reading  your 
foolish  stuff  you  are  cleverer  than  I  take  you 
to  be,"  replied  the  other,  and  at  this  the 
play-writers  set  up  a  loud  laugh. 

'•  Well,  an'  you  will  not  do  that,  mayhap 
you  will  allow  ?ny  reading  it,"  added  the 
young  player,  evidently  in  no  way  discon- 
certed. 

"  Read  it  or  eat  it — 'tis  all  one  to  me," 
answered  the  manager  ;  and  again  the  wits 
had  a  laugh  at  the  expense  of  "  Master 
Countryman."  With  this  permission  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare  commenced  reading  the 
altered  play.  At  first,  the  players  were 
heedless,  and  the  play-writers  amused  them- 
selves by  tittering  at  the  style  of  the  young 
player's  reading ;  nevertheless,  the  latter 
read  on.  As  soon  as  the  alterations  became 
evident,  he  had  a  much  more  attentive  au- 
dience,— the  players  were  surprised — the 
play-writers  amazed,  and  the  manager  lis- 
tened and  stared,  as  though  under  an  en- 
chantment. He  continued  the  play,  the 
faultless  delivery  of  v.'hich  must  of  itself 
have  been  a  sufficient  treat  to  any  one  caring 
to  hear  an  admirable  reading :  but  the  pas- 
sages of  exquisite  svx^eet  poetry — the  bursts 
of  passion,  the  powerful  sketches  of  charac- 
ter, and  the  thrilling  interest  of  the  scenes 
which  Master  Lodge's  play  now  possessed, 
appeared  to  all  present  something  truly 
marvellous. 

"  Shall  this  play  be  played,  my  masters  ?" 
inquired  young  Shakspeare,  something  tri- 
umphantly by  the  way,  as  he  noted  the  effect 
the  perusal  of  it  had  made  upon  his  au- 
dience. 

"  Played  !"  exclaimed  Tom  Greene,  in  a 
famous  pleasure,  "  I'faith,  we  shall  deserve 
to  count  for  precious  asses  all  our  days, 
should  we  let  so  goodly  a  play  escape  us.'" 

"  By  this  light,  'tis  the  movingest,  natu- 
ralest  piece  of  writing  I  ever  heard,"  cried 
young  Burbage,  in  a  like  humor.  His  father 
said  nothing  :  for  he  was  one  of  those,  wlio 
when  they  contract  a  prejudice  against  a 
person  are  exceeding  slow  in  getting  it  re- 
moved ;  but  he  was  too  old  a  judge  of  such 
things  not  to  know  the  nature  of  the  perfor- 
mance as  it  stood.  As  for  the  play-writers, 
they  looked  at  one  another  as  if  each  was 
striving  to  exceed  the  other  in  the  expression 
of  his  wonder  ;  but  as  Master  Lodge,  seeing 
he  could  not  help  it,  acknowledged  his  play 
had  been  greatly  improved,  they  confessed  it 
needs  be  so,  as  the  author  had  said  it.  As 
all  the  players  were  of  one  mind  as  to  its 
fitness  for  being  played,  the  parts,  were  im- 
mediately given  out,  and  a  day  for  a  fii-st 


226 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


rehearsal  fixed.  The  most  envious  of  the 
play-writers  then  went  away,  consoUng  of 
themselves  with  the  hope  it  might  be  damned. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill  ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield. 
They  tame  but  one  another  still. 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  o  fate. 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  stoop  to  death. 

SniKLEY. 

To  set  a  lawe  and  kepe  it  nought, 
There  is  no  common  profit  sought ; 
But  above  all,  natheless, 
The  lawe  which  was  made  for  pees, 
Is  good  to  kepe  for  the  beste  ; 
For  that  sette  all  men  in  reste 

GowEK.  {Co/if essio  Amantis.) 
The  villainy   you  teach  me  I   will  execute, 
and  it  shall  go  hard  but  1  will  better   the   in- 
struction. Shakspeake. 

I  MUST  ask  of  the  courteous  reader  to  wend 
awhile  with  me  in  tlie  company  of  one,  of 
whom  the  historian  has  said  nothing  ;  but, 
as  is  ordinarily  the  case  when  he  hath  a 
proper  object,  he  hath  not  said  one  half  suf- 
ficient ;  i  allude  to  that  accomplished  gentle- 
man, and  truly  valiant  soldier,  Sir  Philip 
Sydney.  He  possessed  the  comprehensive 
mind  that  could  only  be  fully  developed  in  a 
wide  field ;  but,  unfortunately  it  was  con- 
tracted to  suit  the  comparative  subordinate 
parts  he  was  called  on  to  fill ;  and  it  took 
refuge  by  idling  itself  in  its  leisure,  in  the 
fashioning  of  quaint  conceits,  that  suited  the 
age  in  which  they  were  produced,  but  were 
not  enough  true  to  catch  the  favor  of  Time  ; 
besides  which  he  possessed  that  truly  intel- 
lectual nature  which  e.xists  entirely  free 
from  the  clay  of  human  selfishness.  He  had 
no  absorbing  passion,  that  suck  all  into  self, 
till  the  soil  becometh  to  be  a  mass  of  abomi- 
nation, that  poUuteth  what  it  touches.  His 
humanity  was  as  different  to  tliis  as  is  sun- 
shine to  a  cloud.  There  was  at  one  time 
some  talk  of  his  being  elected  to  the  vacant 
throne  of  Poland ;  but  Queen  Elizabeth 
would  not  have  him  leave  her,  she  held  him 
so  high  in  her  esteem.  Would  he  had  been 
a  king !  what  a  glorious  lesson  he  would 
have  set  the  community  of  crowned  heads  ! 
and,  in  honest  truth,  as  far  as  I  have  seen 
of  them  they  do  lack  infinitely  some  such 
teaching. 

It  hath  been  already  said,  that  during  the 


prosecution  of  the  war  in  Flanders,  Sir 
Philip  was  sent  out  as  governor  of  Flushing, 
which  was  to  the  huge  content  of  the  ma- 
gistrates and  citizens.  Here  he  stayed,  well 
liked  of  all  persons,  his  chiefest  companions 
being  Sir  Reginald  and  Sir  Valentine.  Hav- 
ving  by  his  wise  rule  and  courteous  beha- 
vior won  the  love  of  the  whole  town,  he  set 
off  with  the  two  young  knights  to  join  the 
army.  Doubtless  were  all  three  suthciently 
desirous  of  meeting  the  enemy  in  a  fair  field  ; 
but  the  ardor  of  Sir  Reginald  and  his  young 
friend  was  very  properly  tempered  with  the 
prudence  and  circumspection  of  their  more 
experienced  associates.  They  at  last  came 
to  tlie  camp  at  Zutphen,  where  were  assem- 
bled with  the  besieging  forces  the  Earl  of 
Leicester,  as  lord-lieutenant,  with  some  of 
the  valiantest  of  England's  chivalry,  among 
whom  might  be  named  the  Lord  Willoughby, 
the  Lord  Audley,  the  Earl  of  Essex,  Sir 
John  Norris,  Sir  William  Stanley,  and  Sir 
William  Russel ;  but  as  soon  as  they  knew 
he  was  amongst  them,  they  thronged  to  do 
him  honor,  with  as  great  show  of  love  and 
reverence  as  though  he  were  the  comman- 
der of  them  all.  The  Earl  of  Leicester  pre- 
sently showed  himself  to  be  a  better  courtier 
than  a  general ;  for  he  did  little  beyond  dis- 
playing his  magnificence. 

The  siege  commenced  on  the  fifteenth  of 
September,  and  wherever  tliere  was  any 
fighting  there  was  sure  to  be  Sir  Philip 
Sydney  and  his  two  companions.  As  yet, 
neither  had  received  hurt ;  but  what  spare 
time  he  had  Sir  Philip  would  spend  in  his 
tent,  putting  his  papers  in  order  and  writing 
his  will  :  and  by  his  sober  discourse,  show- 
ing he  held  himself  in  readiness  should  he 
fail  in  the  coming  battle.  But  like  a  careful 
master  he  took  every  possible  opportunity 
of  teaching  his  disciples  a  knowledge  of 
their  art.  He  showed  to  them  how  tlie  en- 
trenchments were  made,  explained  to  them 
the  nature  of  the  artillery,  and  made  tliem 
familiar  witli  the  character  and  uses  of  the 
several  fortifications.  Indeed  all  that  might 
be  learned  of  the  projierest  method  of  besieg- 
ing a  fortified  town  lie  taught  them  in  the 
camp  before  Zutphen  ;  and  he  laid  it  down 
with  such  clear  principles  tliat  nothing  could 
be  so  manifest  to  the  tmdcrstanding,  as  was 
his  teaching.  A  famous  scene  was  it -for 
all  young  knights. 

Great  rows  of  tents  spread  farand  wide  with 
the  panoply  of  war  conspicuous  about  them, 
from  which  ofticers  at  the  head  of  tiieir  com- 
panies issued  at  divers  times,  some  on  foot 
and  some  on  horse — some  to  forage  for  the 
army  in  the  surrounding  country — others  to 
cut  off  tlie  enemy's  victual  if  any  such  could 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


2iJ7 


be  found.     Then  came  the  great  guns  and 
the  ammunition  waggons,   with    a    strong 
guard  for  the  forming  of  a  battery — and  par- 
ties of  soldiers  hastening  to  reheve  those 
working  in  the  trenches.     Here  and  there 
would  be  seen  the  captains  inspecting  the  1 
different  posts  or  hurrying  to  their  comman-  j 
ders  to  acquaint  them  how  matters  stood.  In  [ 
the  distance  might  be  noticed  the  flames  of 
some  neighboring  village  where  had  been  I 
some  skirmish ;  and  in  another  spot  a  de- 
tachment driving  cattle  and  grain  to  the  en- 
campment— whilst  afar  off  to  the  verge  of 
the  horizon,  the  smiling  country  looked  as 
though  such  a  thing  as  war  was  as  far  from 
them  as  is  Hell  from  Heaven. 

The  enemy  were  of  exceeding  force  in  the 
town,  numbering  many  thousands,  composed 
chietiy  of  Spaniards  and  Italians,  with  Alba- 
noys,  both  horse  and  foot,  well  equipped 
with  all  things  necessary  for  fierce  fight- 
ing ;  and  they  had  made  their  works  of  a 
very  notable  strength,  but  they  were  some- 
what distressed  lor  provisions,  which  was 
well  known  to  the  besiegers,  and  gave  them 
great  hopes  of  overcoming  the  place.  It  was 
late  one  evening,  about  a  week  after  the 
commencement  of  the  siege,  that  Sir  Pbilip 
Sydney  and  his  two  companions  were  pro- 
ceeding round  the  lines  to  see  that  proper 
watch  was  set,  and  note  if  the  enemy  showed 
the  disposition  to  do  them  any  molestation. 
They  were  afoot  and  not  in  thei'r  armor. 
The  night  was  somewhat  cloudec',  but  there 
was  in  the  sky  many  signs  it  would  soon 
turn  to  a  clear  starlight ;  nevertheless,  in 
the  distance  everything  lay  ii:  great  obscu- 
rity, save  at  the  moon's  occasional  escape 
from  her  shadowy  canopy,  when  the  chief 
features  of  the  landscape  became  more  con- 
spicuous. Sir  Philip  wss  very  eloquently 
discoursing  to  his  youn?  comjianions,  con- 
cerning of  the  right  faiwus  battle  of  Azin- 
cour,  when  to  their  so-iiewhat  astonishment 
he  came  to  a  sudden  break  in  his  speech. 

"  What  noise  is  that  ?"  said  he  very  ear- 
nestly, as  he  turned  his  gaze  towards  the 
open  country. 

"  I  hear  nought  but  the  flowing  of  the 
waters,"  replied  Sir  Valentine. 

"  Nay,  but  tliis  is  no  such  sound,  my 
friend,'"'  added  Sir  Philip  Sydney.  "  Mark 
you  those  moving  objects  indistinctly  seen 
in  the  distance,  creeping  rapidly  along  by 
the  side  of  yonder  hedge  ?" 

"  I  do  see  something  moving,"  answered 
the  other. 

"  Ah,  there  are  many  figures,  and  if  I 
mistake  not  a  multitude  of  carriages  of  some 
sort,"  added  Sir  Reginald,  gazing  hard 
towards  the  spot  pointed  out. 


"  True  !"  exclaimed  their  companion, 
"  and  those  figures,  my  friends,  you  may 
now  plain  enough  see  to  be  a  detachment  of 
horse,  and  those  carriages  are  some  hun- 
dreds of  waggons,  doubtless,  of  victual  and 
other  necessaries  for  the  relief  of  this  town. 
They  must  be  stayed,  or  we  are  like  to  lose 
our  labor.  See,"  continued  he,  as  he  turned 
his  piercing  glance  towards  the  besieged 
town,  on  which  the  moon  suddenly  threw  its 
brilliance.  "  There  are  numbers  of  persons 
bustling  about  very  busily,  nigh  upon  the 
church.  Of  a  surety  they  have  knowledge 
of  their  friends  coming,  and  are  preparing 
to  help  their  approach.  Speed  you.  Sir 
Valentine,  to  the  tent  of  the  lord  general  of 
the  horse,  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  tell  what 
you  have  seen,  that  he  may  have  his  men  in 
readiness  ;  and  you,  Sir  Reginald,  to  the 
tent  of  the  Lord  Willoughby,  on  a  like  errand. 
I  will  to  his  excellency,  the  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant, my  honorable  kinsman,  where  you  can 
say  I  am  gone  ;  then  get  you  to  horse,  and  I 
will  join  you  anon." 

The  three  knights,  as  rapidly  as  they  could, 
returned  to  the  camp,  where  they  imme- 
diatetely  spread  the  alarm,  and  the  trum- 
pet's shrill  alarum  presently  called  up  the 
sleeping  soldiery  ;  and  then  there  was  a  con- 
fusion of  running  hither  and  thither,  for  this 
and  for  that — the  grooms  getting  ready  the 
horses — the  knights  donning  their  armor — 
tbe  ensign  bearers  running  to  their  compa- 
nies— the  captains  mustering  their  men,  and 
the  commanders  hastening  to  the  tent  of  the 
Earl  of  Leicester  for  to  receive  his  orders, 
as  turned  the  peaceful  encampment  that  a 
minute  or  two  since  sounded  of  nought  else 
but  the  measured  tread  or  startling  challenge 
of  the  guard,  into  a  very  Babel  of  confused 
noises  and  thronging  multitudes.  Sir  Philip 
Sydney  quickly  wakened  up  his  kinsman, 
but  ere  the  latter  was  in  readiness,  the  com- 
manders came  hastening  in,  desiring  to  be 
placed  where  they  could  reap  the  most  glory  ; 
all  talking — all  pressing — all  urgent  to  set 
out  against  t.^ie  enemy  without  delay.  Leav- 
ing these  for  awhile,  I  must  here  describe 
other  matters  that  well  deserve  mention. 

There  was  in  the  camp  two  notable  brave 
gentlemen,  to  wit.  Sir  William  Stanley  and 
Sir  John  Norris,  who  a  long  time  back  had 
had  a  quarrel  in  Ireland,  and  had  been  at 
enmity  ever  since.  It  chanced  so  to  hap 
Sir  William  was  first  ready  with  his  '^uu- 
pany — some  two  or  three  hundred  strong, 
which  was  of  foot,  and  was  sent  to  stand  as 
a  bescado,  when,  as  he  was  on  his  way,  Sir 
John  Norris,  who  commanded  among  the 
horse,  overtook  liim — being  sent  to  the  same 


228 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


Benice.     Then  thus  spoke  these  enemies 
one  to  another  : —  ' 

"  There  hath  been,"'  said  Sir  John,  "  some 
words  of  displeasure  between  you  and  me  ; 
but  lot  it  all  pass, — for  this  day  wc  both  arc 
employed  to  serve  her  ]\Iajesty.  Let  us  be 
friends  ;  and  let  us  die  together  in  lier  Ma- 
jesty's cause."  Then  quoth  the  noble  Sir 
William— 

"  If  you  see  me  not  this  day,  by  God"s 
grace,  serve  my  Prince  with  a  valiant  and 
faiditul  courage,  account  me  forever  a  cow- 
ard ;  and  if  need   bo  I  will  die  by  you  in 
fricadsliip."  Thereupon  these  brave  soldiers 
embraced  very  lovingly,   to  the  exceeding 
content  of  all  present ;  and  as  soon  after  as 
might  be.  Sir  William  Stanley  marched  with 
lii^i  footmen,  intending  to  take  up  a  position 
at  a  church  in   the  suburbs,   but   this  the 
enemy  had  entrenched  bel'ore  hantl,  and  there 
lay  to  the  number  of  more  than  two  thou- 
sand   muskets    and    eiglit  hundred   pikes. 
Before  he  could  come  to  t^kinnisii  with  them, 
the  Lord  Audley  joined  him  with  a  hundred 
and  hi'ty  men — in  desperate   lia.-te  to  be  iu 
the  first  conllict.  The  light  soon  began  vvitii 
hot  vollies   of  musket-shot.     'I'he   English  1 
pressing  upon   their  opponents  at  the  push 
of  the  pike,  till  they  drove  them   into  their  I 
hold  ;  and  then  they  retreated  out   of   the  j 
range  of  the  muskets,  there  to  make  a  stand.  | 
At  this  the  enemy  issued  in  great   strength 
of  horse,  mostly  Spaniards  and  Italians,  and  i 
at  that  moment  there  came  up  on  the  l^ng- 
lish  side,  the   Lord  General  of  the   Horse, 
the  Earl  of  Essex,   the   Lord  Willougliby, 
Sir  William  Russel,  and  Sir  John  ISorris,  i 
and  other  valiant  ofhcers  of  a  like  fame  with  | 
their  companies  ;  and  these  presently  charged  I 
the  enemy  with  such  fury,  that  they  were,  | 
after  some  hard  fighting,  fain  to  retreat  to  ' 
their   pikes,  leaving  a  famous   number   ofl 
dead  and  wounded,  beside  some  twenty  of  I 
their  jirincipal  commanders  who  had   been 
made  prisoners.  i 

In  this  charge  Sir  John  Norris  led  with  I 
his  wonted  valor,  but  in  discharging  of  his  | 
pistol  it  would  not  go  off,  which  seeing,  he ' 
stroke  it  at  the  head  of  his  enemy  and  over- 
threw him.  His  associates  used  their  lances 
till  they  broke;  tlicn  plied  they  their  curtcl- 
axes  with  such  vigor  of  arm,  that  the  enemy 
took  them  to  be  more  of  devils  than  men, 
they  were  so  terrible. 

'■  For  the  honor  of  England,  my  fellows, 
follow  me  !"  shouted  the  Earl  of  Essex,  as 
he  threw  his  lance  in  rest,  and  wherever 
he  saw  six  or  seven  of  the  enemies  together, 
he  would  se])araLe  their  friendship  with  more 
speed  than  might  be  in  any  w-ay  couifor- 
table  to  ihem.     But  surely  of  all  these  valo- 


rous noble  soldiers,  none  so  behaved  him- 
self as  did  Sir  Philip  Sydney.  His  two  com- 
panions kept  close  to  him  wherever  he 
charged,  and  with  lance  and  with  curtel-axe 
so  ])layed  their  parts,  that  each  was  an 
honor  to  the  other.  Even  in  the  great  ex- 
citement of  this  hot  conflict,  Sir  "Valentino 
thought  of  his  humble,  yet  nol)le  hearted 
mistress  ;  and,  inwardly  resolved  to  do  such 
feats  for  her  at  that  time,  as  might  any 
knigiit  tor  the  proudest  lady  that  lived.  Sir 
Reginald's  valor  also  was  impelled  by  a  fair 
lady  whom  he  had  left  in  England,  and 
loved  since  he  had  last  seen  the  gentle 
Mabel  ;  but  the  valor  of  Sir  Philip  was  all 
for  the  honor  of  England.  His  war  cry 
might  be  heard  in  the  loudest  uproar  of  llic 
battle,  rising  amid  the  din  of  the  artillery, 
and  the  shouts,  groans,  shrieks  and  cries  of 
tiie  wounded,  and  the  Mghting. 

His  lance  had  long  since  been  shivered, 
and  his  curtel-axe  seemed  to  have  the  power 
of  Jove's  thunder-ijolt.  for  nothing  was  like 
unto  tlie  dreadful  destruction  he  spread 
around.  ISone  won  so  mucli  admiration  ar 
did  he,  although  every  one  appeared  to  be 
eudeavoring  to  signalise  himself  above  the 
biivest  of  tliose  brave  soldiers  that  were  on 
his  side.  He  charged  the  enemy  thrice  in 
one  skirmish,  spreading  teiTor  and  deatJi 
wherever  he  appeared  ;  at  last,  as  he  was  in 
the  vtry  fury  of  the  conflict,  he  fell  to  tlx- 
ground,"shot 'through  the  leg.  His  fall  was 
cjuickly  a-venged,  especially  by  Sir  Valen- 
tine and  vjir  Reginald  ;  and  when  they  had 
beaten  bach  the  enemy,  they  carefully  con- 
veyed their  \ounded  friend  to  the  tent  of  his 
kinsman.  A\  his  old  associates  were  pre- 
sently about  lira,  in  most  anxious  suspense- 
whilst  tiie  chirurgeon  examined  his  wound  ; 
and  when  it  was  pronounced  to  be  mortiil, 
there  was  most  dUeful  visages  in  every  one 
,  present, 

'■  O  Philip,  I  am  ;ony  for  thy  hurt !"  ex- 
I  claimed  Leicester,  as  tliough  he  was  deeply 
I  atlected. 

I      '•  O  !  my  lord,  this  have  I  done  to  do  your 

lordship  and   her  majesty  service,"  replied 

j  that  great  ornament  of  his  age.     Then  came 

I  to  him  Sir  William  Russ?l,  who  kissed  his 

hand,  and  said  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 

'•  O,  noble  Sir  Philip !  there  was  never 
man  attained  hurt  more  honorablv  tiian  vou 
have  done,  nor  any  served  like  unto  yon." 
And  alter  hiui,  others  of  that  valiant  com- 
pany did  testify  their  love  and  grief  after 
much  the  same  moving  fashion;  but  he  an- 
swered them  every  one  verj'  cheerfully,  and 
seemed  as  though  he  were  the  only  content- 
ed person  in  the  place.  As  speedily  as  was 
possible  he  was  removed  from  tlie  tent  under 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


229 


the  espficial  guardianship  of  his  sorrowing 
disciples — the    two   young    knights — to  a  | 
neighboring  place  called  Aniani  ;  and  the ' 
skilfuUest   chirurgeons  in   the   army   were 
sent  to  him  to  see  if  anything  might  be  done 
to  save  one  whose  true  greatness  could  be 
so   ill  spared.     But  it  was  soon  seen   his 
hours  were  numbered.     Then  the  priest  was 
sent  for,  that  he  might  have  proper  Christian  j 
consolation  in  his  extremity. 

There  lay  the  dying  Sir  Philip  Sydney  on 
a  couch,  supported  by  j>illo\vs,  with  one  hand 
clasping  Sir  Valentine, — the  other  laying  as 
affectionate  hold  of  Sir  Reginald,  as  they 
knelt  beside  him  in  great  tribulation — his 
old  companions  grouped  about,  looking  on  as 
though  their  hearts  would  break  ;  and  even 
the  chirurgeons,  seeming  by  their  aspects 
to  regard  their  honorable  patient  with  ex- 
ceeding sympathy.  He  had  already  ex- 
plained his  last  desires,  which  he  had  done 
with  such  singular  sweetness  of  humor  and 
quietness  of  mind,  that  none,  when  they  had  in 
their  remembrance  the  severity  of  his  hurt, 
and  the  extreme  painfulness  wliicli  naturally 
come  of  it,  could  s\ilficiently  marvel.  He 
Avas  now  intent  upon  expressing  his  opinion 
on  his  approaching  death,  wiiich  he  did 
with  so  much  calmness  of  true  philosophy 
that  every  one  present  appeared  to  listen  in 
a  perfect  amazement.  At  this  moment  en- 
tered the  priest.  He  had  a  venerable  mild 
countenance,  and  his  bearing  was  altogether 
that  of  a  worthy  minister  of  the  Christian 
Church. 

"  Welcome,  excellent  sir  !"  exclaimed  Sir 
Phihp,  with  the  same  marvellous  cheerful- 
ness he  had  shown  ever  since  he  had  re- 
ceived his  deadly  hurt,  "I  am  heartily  glad 
to  sec  you,  more  especially,  because,  had 
you  not  come,  I  might  never  more  have  en- 
joyed the  sweet  comfort  of  your  honorable 
society.  Methinks  there  can  be  no  dis- 
course so  precious,  as,  when  the  soul  hover- 
eth  over  its  mortal  dwelling,  pluming  its 
wings,  as  it  were,  for  its  last  long  flight, 
that  which  cometh  of  a  religious  friend. 
Then  is  the  fittingest  time  of  all  for  grave 
counsel ; — for  he  that  is  departing,  is  like 
to  a  knight  about  setting  upon  a  journey,  he 
scarce  knoweth  where,  and  reqiiireth  some 
wiser  mind  to  advise  with  him,  exhort  him 
to  honorable  valor,  and  acquaint  him  with 
tliose  infinite  delectable  consolations  that 
spring  from  a  life  well  spent.  Surely  wick- 
edness must  be  very  foolishness  ;  for  ho  that 
is  unjust,  or  doeth  any  manner  of  evil,  put- 
teth  away  from  him  every  hope  of  contenta- 
tion  in  his  extremity — he  can  only  procure 
for  himself  a  disreputable  living  and  a  miser- 
able end ;  but  what  absolute  sweet  solace 


hath  a  gc/d  man  when  death  claimplh  liis 
acquaintance  !  He  lookelh  back  to  the 
bright  vista  of  bygone  years,  and  beholdeth 
so  fair  a  landscape,  it  cannot  help  being  the 
delight  of  his  heart.  There  lie  before  his 
gaze  charitable  tiioughts,  chaste  feelings, 
and  noble  achievements,  blooming  like 
flowers  in  Paradise,  whose  freshness  and 
beauty  know  no  fading  ;  then  when  he  seek- 
eth  to  peer  into  the  future,  it  spreadeth  out 
for  him  such  glorious  store  of  starry  hopes, 
that  it  seemeth  as  though  the  brightest  Hea- 
vens were  opening  of  their  treasures  to  re- 
ward him  for  his  desert." 

"  Surely,  I  have  no  need  here  !"  cried  the 
priest,  evidently  in  some  wondering,  as  he 
stood  by  the  couch  of  the  dying  soldier,  wit- 
nessing his  extreme  patience. 

"  O  my  master  !  my  father  !  Alack  'tis 
pitiful,  most  pitiful  thou  shouldst  leave  us  !" 
exclaimed  Sir  Valentine,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
audible  for  the  greatness  of  his  emotion. 

"  His  last  hour  is  come,"  whispered  one 
of  the  chirurgeons  to  another  ;  and  this,  the 
increasing  paleness  of  his  lips  in  some  man- 
ner testified. 

'•  Yet  of  all  deaths  for  a  Christian  knight," 
continued  Sir  Philip,  with  the  same  mar- 
vellous composure,  "surely  that  is  mostly 
to  be  coveted  which  cometh  in  defence  of 
his  country.  To  die  in  defending  the  rights 
of  the  oppressed  orphan  or  wronged  widow, 
is  doubtless  exceeding  honorable ;  to  fall 
whilst  advancing  the  Christian  banner 
against  the  approaches  of  villainous  heathen 
Pagans,  must  also  be  a  death  to  be  envied  ; 
but  the  enemy's  of  one's  country  must  needs 
be  the  oppressor  of  its  orphans,  the  wronger 
of  its  widows,  and  the  subverter  of  its  reli- 
gion ;  and  he  who  falleth  in  his  country's 
defence,  hath  all  the  glory  that  can  be  gain- 
ed in  the  combined  cause  of  liberty  and 
virtue.  The  Spaniard  is  the  ruthless  enemy 
of  England  ;  he  seeketh  her  disgrace,  he 
seeketh  her  dishonor ;  he  would  trample  on 
her  laws,  violate  her  liberties,  desecrate  her 
altars,  enslave,  tyrannize,  and  bring  to 
shame  all  her  gallant  men  and  admirable 
fair  women,  who  could  not  endure  his  rule. 
Against  such  an  enemy  I  have  received  my 
hurt.  Surely  then  I  ought  to  account  my- 
self infinitely  fortunate  ;  and  you,  my  friends, 
instead  of  sorrowing  for  my  loss,  should 
rather  envy  me  my  proper  ending. 

"  Sir  Valentine,  1  know  you  to  be  a  truly 
valiant  knight,  and  a  most  honorable  gentle- 
man," added  he,  turning  his  eyes  affection- 
ately towards  his  favorite  pupil ;  "  grieve 
not  for  me,  I  beseech  you  :  so  much  faith 
have  I  in  your  well  disposedness  and  gallant 
qualities,  I  feel  convinced  you  will  do  fa- 


2?0 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


mous  credit  to  my  instruction.  Believe  me, 
I  experience  exijuisite  comfort  in  linowing 
I  leave  beliinJ  me  a  young  Icniglit  of  sucli 
rare  promise." 

"  Oh,  noble  Sir  Philip,"  exclai\ned  Sir 
Valentine  right  pitcously,  '•  O  my  dear  mas- 
ter I  1  cannot  help  but  grieve  with  all  my 
heart ;  I  shall  never  behold  so  worthy  a  con> 
mander."  Then  the  dying  soldieraddro-ssed  Sir 
Reginald  and  the  other  officers  one  after  an- 1 
other,  and  every  one  te  commended  for  such 
qualities  as  he  had  taken  note  of ;  and  each 
he  exhorted  to  continue  in  the  like  behavior.  [ 
After  this,  he  courteously  and  gravely  talked  J 
with  the  priest  on  religious  matters,  and  feel- 
ing his  end  drawing  nigher,  he  asked  to 
have  his  prayers.  Thereupon  the  good  man 
prayed  by  his  couch  very  fervently.  Sir 
Philip  joining  in  such  devotions  with  a  pla- 
cid countenance,  his  lips  moving  though  he 
made  no  sound  ;  and  nothing  else  was  audi- 
ble in  the  chamber,  save  the  b.alf-suppressed 
sobs  of  those  who  could  not  conceal  their 
grief.  The  prayer  was  finished,  but  the  lips 
of  the  dying  man  still  moved  occasionally, 
with  a  sort  of  indistinct  muttering ;  once 
only  he  spoke  audibly,  and  then  the  words 
were,  "  For  the  honor  of  liingH5.nd,"  which 
plain  enough  told  what  lay  "next  his  heart ; 
and  these  were  the  last  words  he  was  heard 
to  utter.  His  eyes  were  rapidly  getting  to 
be  more  dim,  and  aspect  of  a  more  deathly 
paleness.  At  last,  there  was  a  sound  heard 
in  his  throat,  which  set  every  one  to  hiding 
of  his  face  ;  and  the  bravest  commander 
there  present  did  groan  outright. 

"  In  my  lile  I  have  seen  many  deaths," 
said  the  priest,  a  few  minutes  after  all  was 
over,  "  but  never  saw  I  the  dying  of  so  esti- 
mable a  man,  or  so  Christian  a  soldier  !'' 

And  thus  perished,  in  the  very  flower  of 
life,  one  of  the  noblest  examples  of  chivalry 
England  hath  produced  ;  but  r>umerous  as 
may  have  been  her  heroes,  never  before  or 
since  hath  she  set  up  one  so  truly  worthy  of 
the  title.  In  him  there  seemed  to  be  ever 
manifest,  manliL>oJ  in  its  brightest  attributes, 
the  noblest  properties  of  mind,  and  the  j)urest 
influences  of  feeling.  His  valor  was  divest- 
ed of  that  animal  dross  which  is  too  gene- 
rally found  mingled  wiih  it,  in  the  shape  of 
cruelty,  love  of  strife,  outra;»eous  violence, 
or  coarse  unfeelingness  ;  and  it  arose  out  of 
one  motive,  the  honor  of  England,  which 
was  in  his  nature  a  very  Pactolus,  enriched 
with  gt)lden  sands.  Of  tlio  sterlingnoss  of 
his  intellect,  mcthinks  he  hath  left  good  evi- 
dence ;  yet  it  cannot  in  any  way  be  com- 
pared with  what  might  have  resulted  from 
such  a  source,  had  he  lived  to  disencumber 
himself  of  the  afl'octations  of  his  age.     But 


of  his  virtues,  surely  there  cannot  be  such 
excellent  witness, — 'for  no  knight  ever  died 
more  lameirted  of  the  brave,  the  noble,  the 
just,  the  true  and  the  wise.  Old  and  young 
rich  and  poor,  and  all  sexes  and  conditions, 
received  the  intelligence  of  his  decease  with 
the  deepest  grief.  Few  men  have  been  so 
loved — none  so  sore  lamented.  But  from  a 
scene  so  im-tructive  as  the  death  of  so  gri>at 
a  man,  I  must  now  hurry  the  reader  to  one, 
which,  mayhap,  hath  also  its  lesson,  though 
never  could  difference  be  so  complete,  as 
shall  be  found  in  their  chief  features.  It  is 
necessary  to  say,  that  the  event  about  to  be 
related  followed  upon  the  foregoing,  after 
some  lapse  of  time. 

The  noble,  of  whom  the  reader  hath  al- 
ready some  knowledge  through  his  base 
attempts  on  the  poor  foundling,  sat  with  his 
ordinary  companion  in  iniquity,  the  gallant 
before  described,  in  a  chamber,  which  for  ihe 
s!unptuousnessof  its  furnishing,  might  justly 
be  styled  regal.  He  no  longer  seemed  as 
though  he  sought  conceahnent,  being  attired 
in  such  gorgeuusness  as  language  can  give 
but  a  f:iint  idea  of;  his  coimtenance,  full  of 
confulence,  ever  and  anon  brightened  with  a 
social  sort  of  smile,  as  he  listened  to  his 
de|)endant.  The  latter  looked  more  the 
worn-out  profligate  than  ever  ;  but  he  was 
more  bravely  clad  than  was  his  wont; 
and  appeared  as  though  his  infamous  ser- 
vices earned  him  liberal  wajies.  In  what 
he  spoke  there  was  the  triumphant  villain, 
rejoicing  in  the  success  of  some  foul  scheme 
jr.st  brought  to  a  foul  conclusion — with  a 
manner  half  laughing,  half  sneering,  in  re- 
lation to  the  subject,  yet  as  regarded  his 
hearer,  marked  with  a  mingled  asvsurance 
and  security  that  sufficiently  bespoke  the 
nature  of  his  service,  and  his  dependance 
on  his  employer. 

The  table  before  them  contained  vessels 
of  wine,  with  silver  cups,  and  dishes  of  gold, 
lilled  with  dried  fruit,  cakes,  conserves,  and 
other  delicates,  as  if  they  had  been  making 
good  cheer.  The  chamber  was  of  such 
dimei>sions  and  of  so  fair  a  structure,  as 
made  it  evident  it  appertained  to  some  prince- 
ly castle,  and  the  battlements  and  towers 
seen  from  the  windows  appeared  as  strong 
witnesses  to  the  same  purpose.  The  noble 
sat  on  a  richly  embroidered  chair,  in  great 
state,  resting  of  his  feet  on  a  cushion  of 
costly  stuff;  beside  the  table,  carelessly  using 
of  a  diamond-hafted  tooth-pick ;  and  the 
gallant  sat  over  against  him  on  as  proud  a 
seat,  telling  the  staple  of  his  discourse,  and, 
making  the  whilst  as  famous  cheer  as  ho, 
could. 

'Twas  well  done,  if  no  suspicion  follow  it, 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


231 


Sir  Piers,"  observed  the  former,  as  if  musing 
somewhat. 

"  Nay,  suspicion  is  clean  impossible,  my 
lord,"  replied  the  other.  "  The  man  is  dead, 
and  1  defy  the  searchinn^est  pryers  to  discover 
how  he  came  to  his  death.  As  for  me,  my 
disguise  was  so  perfect,  none  could  suspect 
who  I  was,  and  even  could  that  be  possible 
— believing  me  as  I  affected  to  be  your  bitter 
enemy,  they  would  as  lief  suspect  themselves 
of  the  deed  as  your  honorable  lordship." 

"  Did  he  make  no  outcry  ?"  inquired  the 
noble. 

"  Not  a  whisper,"  replied  the  gallant. 

"  Was  there  no  fierce  convulsions  ?"  ask- 
ed the  former. 

"  Scarce  a  struggle!"  answered  his  com- 
panion, "  the  poison  is  the  most  subtle  I  ever 
heard  of  It  seemed  to  have  entered  into 
his  very  marrow,  ere  you  could  say  he  had 
well  taken  it,  and  left  the  face  unmarked  by 
any  blackening,  or  disfigurement,  like  one 
who  dieth  of  a  sudden,  without  apparent 
disease.  Truly,  'tis  a  notable  ridder  of  ene- 
mies, I  knew  not  so  invaluable  a  mixture 
could  be  had  anywhere." 

"  1  had  it  of  an  Italian  woman  who  was 
reputed  the  skilf idlest  compounder  of  such 
things  that  ever  lived,"  said  his  lord  care- 
lessly. "  But  this  is  not  the  first  trial  I  have 
made  of  it.  Thou  hast  managed  the  affair 
most  cleverly  I  must  confess.  I  would  thou 
hadst  succeeded  as  well  in  procuring  me  the 
beauteous  Mabel." 

'•  O'  my  life,  my  lord,  I  did  all  that  most 
extreme  cunning  could  accomplish,"  replied 
his  dependant  very  earnestly.  "  Some  pes- 
tilent thing  or  another  ever  thwarted  me 
when  I  thought  myself  to  be  securest ;  and 
her  long  interest  came,  a  murrain  on't ! 
when  I  believed  the  devil  himself  could  not 
have  snatched  her  from  my  net." 

"  'Tis  strange,  Sir  Piers,  thou  shouldst 
never  have  heard  ought  of  her  since,"  ob- 
served the  noble. 

"  Nay,  who,  could  have  supposed  the 
wench  would  have  given  me  tlie  slip  when 
the  physicians  said  she  was  scarce  able  to 
leave  her  chamber,"  replied  the  gallant.  "  I 
have  searched  for  lier  since  then  far  and 
near,  and  my  man  hath  penetrated  into  all 
sorts  of  places  the  whole  country  round 
where  it  was  supposed  she  might  have  got 
shelter,  but  not  so  much  as  glimpse  of  her 
have  either  of  us  gained. " 

"  She  was  a  noble  creature  !"  exclaimed 
his  companion.  "  I  have  seen  nought  to 
compare  with  her  either  amongst  our  court 
beauties  here  in  England,  or  the  lovely 
dames  I  met  during  my  stay  abroad.  I 
never  have  been  so  monstrously  disappoint- 


ed as  in  her  escape.     I  would  have  given 
thousands  to  have  prevented  it." 

'•  By  this  hand  I  was  never  so  vexed  all 
my  days  !"  added  the  other  with  similar 
earnestness.  After  this  there  was  a  pause 
of  a  minute  or  so,  in  which  the  former  seem- 
ed thinking  of  his  loss,  whilst  the  other  re- 
plenished the  cups  with  wine,  and  helped 
himself  freely  to  the  tempting  cates  before 
hiai. 

"  Does  that  follower  of  thine  know  any- 
thing of  what  thou  hast  lately  done  for  me  ?" 
inquired  the  noble. 

"Not  a  syllable,"  replied  the  gallant. 
"  He  is  faithful  enough  I  doubt  not,  but  I 
would  trust  none  in  so  dangerous  a  matter." 

"  Doth  think  he  hath  any  suspicion  of  it?" 

"  Not  the  sliglitest." 

"  Nor  any  of  the  menial  people  about 
mo?" 

"  'Tis  utterly  impossible,  my  lord,  I  have 
been  so  close." 

"  'Tis  well,"  exclaimed  the  noble.  '•  Thou 
hast  managed  this  matter  very  delicately, 
Sir  Piers.  Thou  liar-t  proved  thyself  a  true 
friend  withal,  and  I  assure  tiiee  I  will  reward 
thee  fittingly." 

"  I  thank  you,  my  lord,"  replied  his  associ- 
ate. "  You  have  already  bestowed  on  ma 
many  marks  of  your  honorable  favor,  and 
methinks  I  cannot  do  enough  to  show  my 
readiness  to  sQrve  so  bountiful  a  master." 

"  Depend  on't  what  I  have  done  is  nought 
to  what  I  intended  doing,"  answered  the 
other.  "  Thy  knighthood  is  but  a  small 
lienor  to  what  I  can  now  gain  for  thee.  I 
am  paramount  in  the  council,  and  with  her 
highness  I  have  so  fLxed  myself,  I  can  do  as 
I  Vv'iil.  Go  get  thee,  good  Sir  Piers,  to  my 
privy  chamber — there  is  my  George-collar  I 
would  have  out  of  the  jewel-case  on  the 
dressing-table.  Bring  it  me  straight,  I  pri- 
thee, and  tell  my  gTooms  not  to  come  to  me 
unless  I  send  to  them." 

"  Readily,  my  lord,"  answered  Sir  Piers, 
and  taking  the  key  of  the  jewel-case  from 
his  patron,  tlie  newly  made  knight — surely 
never  was  kniglithood  so  dishonored — pro- 
ceeded out  of  the  chamber.  Directly  the 
door  closed  on  him,  the  noble  sprung  from 
his  seat,  and  very  carefully  took  a  small 
paper  packet  from  beneath  the  silken  lining 
of  his  velvet  doublet,  and  cautiously  opening 
it,  poured  its  contents  into  the  silver  cup  of 
his  dependant,  and  then  briskly  stirred  up 
the  wine  with  his  jeweled  dagger.  The 
latter  he  first  wiped  on  his  handkerchief, 
and  replaced  in  its  sheath ;  and  then  saun- 
tered to  the  window,  gaily  humming  of  a 
popular  tune.  Sir  Piers  presently  returned 
with  what  he  had  been  sent  for,  and  took  it 


232 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


to  the  table,  and  his  lord  remained  a  minute 
or  so  at  the  window,  as  if  intent  on  noting 
something  in  the  base-court  that  had  attract- 
ed his  attention,  and  then  sauntered  back  to 
his  seat  humming  of  his  tune  with  the  same 
careless  manner  as  he  had  commenced  it. 

"You  are  merry,  my  lord!"  exclaimed 
the  knight,  who  had  now  regained  his  seat. 

"  Merry  !  ay,  and  why  not,  my  friend  ?" 
replied  the  other  very  socially,  as  he  put 
round  his  neck  the  magnificent  chain  he 
had  sent  for.  "  Methinks,  I  have  right 
famous  cause,  Sir  Piers.  Everything  con- 
spireth  to  make  me  the  greatest  man  in  these  I 
realms.  I  have  no  peer,  look  where  I  will ; 
and  I  have  borne  myself  hitherto  with  such 
marvellous  prudence,  none  can  urge  against 
me  ought  to  my  prejudice." 

"  Marry,  then  you  have  famous  cause  for 
singing,"  cried  his  dependant. 

"  Truly,  liave  I,  my  faithful  worthy  friend," 
said  his  companion,  taking  the  wine  cup  in 
his  hand,  with  the  look  and  manner  of  a 
true  reveller.  "  Come,  Sir  Piers,  prithee 
pledge  me.  As  thou  shalt  share  my  for- 
tunes, 'tis  bat  litting  thou  shouldst  drink  to 
my  lasting  prosperity." 

'"  Most  gladly  will  I,"  answered  Sir  Piers, 
quickly  rising  from  his  seat,  and  following 
his  lord's  example  in  grasping  his  wine  cup. 

'•  Now,  mark  me,  and  do  thou  likewise — 
or  I  will  proclaim  thee  a  sorry  drinker  !"  and 
thereupon  the  noble  drunk  off  at  a  draught 
the  contents  of  his  cup. 

"  Bravely  done,  my  lord  !"  cried  the  other, 
very  merrily  ;  and  I  will  now  show  how  apt 
a  scholar  I  am.  My  lord  I  drink  to  your 
continual  prosperousness."  And  then  Sir 
Piers  finished  his  draught  in  as  rapid  a 
fashion  as  his  lord  had  done. 

"  Thou  art  indeed  an  apt  scholar  !"  replied 
the  noble,  manifestly  with  more  than  ordi- 
nary satisfaction,  as  ho  placed  his  empty 
cup  on  the  table,  and  reseated  himself — the 
knight  at  the  same  time  doing  the  like 
thing ;  and  tlien  t!io  former  commenced 
humming  of  his  tune  ;igain,  and  using  of  his 
toothpick,  with  as  careless  a  look  as  if  no 
person  could  be  so  content  as  was  he.  Sir 
Piers  poured  out  more  wine  for  himself,  and 
continued  eating  of  the  dried  fruit.  All 
at  once  he  smiled  somewhat,  and  just  at  that 
moment  his  patron,  taking  a  sudden  glance 
at  him,  noticed  it. 

"  Ha,  are  thy  thoughts  so  ])lcasant.  Sir 
Piers  !"  cried  the  other,  and  then  went  on 
humming  of  his  tunc. 

•'  Exceeding  pleasant,  my  lord,"  said  his 
companion,  iind  suiiled  more  evidently  than 
before.  At  this  the  noble  looked  at  him 
very  hard,  saying  never  a  word  ;  and  the 


knight  kept  his  eyes  on  those  of  his  employer 
as  if  he  cared  not  for  such  scrutiny,  for  his 
smile  continued  to  become  more  palpable. 
The  lord  now  looked  surprised — then  amaz- 
ed— then  distrustful — his  tune  ceased  ere  it 
had  half  ended — the  tootli-pick  fell  from  his 
hand,  and  laying  convulsive  hold  of  the 
arms  of  his  chair,  he  leaned  forward,  fixing 
a  stare  of  horror  on  his  companion.  The 
smile  of  the  latter  now  had  a  sort  of  devilish 
derision  in  it,  and  his  eyes  glared  on  the 
other  with  a  very  fiendlike  mockery.  The 
noble  now  snatched  at  his  dagger,  holding 
himself  up  with  the  strength  of  tlie  other 
arm,  whilst  the  agony  expressed  in  his  face, 
whence  the  blood  had  all  rushed,  leaving  it 
of  a  deadly  paleness,  and  the  strange  manner 
in  which  he  began  twisting  his  body,  be- 
spoke in  him  some  terrible  suftering  ;  but  at 
this  his  companion  laughed  outright. 

"Caught  in  thine  own  trap!"  cried  his 
triumphant  partner  in  guilt.  "  O'  my  life, 
never  was  traitor  so  well  served  !  What  ? 
After  I  had  done  at  thy  bidding  all  manner 
of  villanies,  a  dog's  death  was  to  be  my  re- 
ward ;  and  so  thou  get  rid  of  every  evidence 
of  thy  matchless  infamy  !  Prithee,  my  lord, 
stop  up  thy  key-hole  whilst  preparing  to 
poison  thy  familiars,  when  thou  hast  sent 
them  out  of  the  way  awhile,  else  they  may 
do  as  I  have  done,  spy  thy  intention,  and  on 
their  return  make  so  bold  as  change  the 
drugged  cup  for  another,  and  so  the  poisoner 
get  the  poison  for  himself." 

Here  the  knight  laughed  again  more  scorn- 
fully than  before.  At  this,  liis  lord  made  a 
convulsive  effort  to  rise — his  hoiTible  fierce 
looks  distorted  as  if  VvUth  the  most  racking 
intolerable  pains — his  eyes  seeming  to  dilate 
to  a  wonderful  bigness,  and  flashing  forth 
most  dreadful  deadly  malice  —  his  teeth 
gnashing  together,  and  his  every  limb  start- 
ing and  trembling  with  the  mightiness  of 
his  agony  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  got  him- 
self to  stand  upright,  his  eyes  rolled  in  their 
sockets  most  frightfully  ;  •  violent  fierce 
spasms  and  convulsions  shook  him  in  every 
part — the  uplifted  dagger  dropped  from  his 
nerveless  grasp,  and  the  next  moment  its 
lordly  owner  fell  to  the  ground  a  corpse. 

"  So  ends  my  Lord  of  Leicester  !"  ex- 
claimed his  villainous  associate,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  body.  "  Truly  a  very  suitable 
ending.  But  it  will  scarce  be  proper  to 
leave  him  here,  else  I  may  chance  to  follow 
him  more  quickly  than  1  desire."  Saying 
this.  Sir  Piers  carefully  placed  the.  dead  man 
leaning  back  in  his  seat  as  if  he  slept,  and 
then  hurried  out  of  the  chamber.  Thus 
finished  his  career,  the  most  accomplished 
villain  of  his  age,  who  was  so  admirable  a 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


233 


master  of  duplicity,  that  his  real  character 
was  suspected  of  but  few ;  and  so  cautious 
in  the  doing'  of  his  villainies,  that  he  rarely 
left  the  slightest  ground  for  suspicion.  At 
last,  his  over-anxiety  to  secure  hini=elf  ended 
in  his  own  destruction,  as  hath  been  related. 
Nevertheless,  few  knew  him  to  be  what  he 
was  ;  and  by  those  few  he  was  so  thorough- 
ly detested  for  his  extraordinary  craft  and 
treachery,  that  amongst  them  he  was  usually 
called  by  the  nickname  of  "  The  Gypsey." 
By  the  majority  he  hath  been  held  in  re- 
membrance as  '•  The  Great  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter;" but  his  title  to  such  greatness  as  they 
would  confer  on  him,  was  grounded  on  his 
magnificence,  his  unrivalled  power  in  the 
kingdom,and  the  consummate  policy  of  his  en- 
deavors to  retain  it.  He  was  a  brilliant  char- 
acter, but  it  v/as  the  brilliance  that  cometh 
of  a  base  metal,  where  the  art  used  to  give 
it  a  shining  appearance,  out  of  all  comparison 
exceedeth  the  value  of  the  stuff  on  which  it 
is  exerted. 

JMany  such  men  there  are,  who  by  their 
high  position  in  the  social  fabric  and  won- 
drous subtlety  in  outwardly  conforming  with 
established  opinions,  pass  for  monuments 
worthy  of  admiration  and  reverence,  whilst 
divers  of  the  truly  great,  who  have  no  other 
title  than  honesty,  and  little  wealth  beyond 
their  daily  crust,  are  passed  over  as  of  no 
account,  and  all  that  cometh  of  their  noble 
aims  as  far  as  the  world  is  concerned — is 
the  oblivion  of  an  unhonored  grave.  Never- 
theless, be  sure  Nature  taketh  a  proper  heed 
of  these  last,  and  whenever  that  vile  partial 
chronicler,  History,  braggeth  most  loudly  of 
his  proud  lords  and  sanguinary  conquerors, 
she  whispers  in  the  ears  of  all  just  men, 
the  loving  kindnesses,  the  generous  self- 
denials,  the  true  nobility,  and  imperishable 
worth  of  her  own  peerage.  Thus,  among 
the  well-judging  few,  models  of  true  great- 
ness are  ever  to  be  found  worthy  of  close 
copying,  wiiich,  age  after  age,  lead  to  the 
production  of  others  of  a  like  merit ;  and 
thus  nature  fuliilleth  the  mission  of  truth, 
and  laugheth  the  mere  brags  of  history  in 
utter  and  everlasting  scorn. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Behavior,  what  wert  thou, 
Till  this  man  showed  thee  ?  and  what  art  thou 
now? 

Shakspeare. 

Wii-LiAM  Shakspeare  sat  in  a  miserable 
garret  which  boasted  of  no  better  furniture 


than  an  old  table,  on  which  were  some  books 
and  papers,  an  old  stool  to  match,  whereon 
he  was  sitting,  a  truckle  bed  of  a  like  hum- 
bleness, that  served  for  his  nightly  rest ;  and 
a  worm-eaten  chest  that  played  the  part  of 
cupboard,  of  press,  and  of  book-case  also. 
The  casement  was  small  and  dirty,  and 
the  wainscot  and  ceiling  crumbling  in  many 
places.  I  said  amiss  when  I  asserted  tliere 
was  no  better  furniture  in  the  chamber,  for 
there  was  in  it  its  gifted  tenant ;  and  this 
made  the  poor  place  to  be  more  richly  fur- 
nished than  could  have  been  the  stateliest 
hall  throughout  the  kingdom.  Mayhap  he 
was  studying  of  a  part  in  some  play,  for  he 
sat  leaning  his  arms  on  the  table,  with  his 
hands  supporting  his  head  immediately  over 
a  written  paper ;  and  so  serious  was  he  in 
this  studying,  that  he  heard  not  the  opening 
of  the  door,  and  the  entrance  of  a  visitor. 

'•  Ha  !  there  thou  art,  by  this  hand  !"'  ex- 
claimed Master  Greene,  the  play-writer,  with 
as  much  seeming  gladness  as  though  the 
young  player  was  his  dearest  friend ;  and 
thereupon  he  went  hastily  up  to  him,  and 
shook  him  famously  by  the  liand,  inquired 
after  his  health,  and  making  such  bountiful 
show  of  friendship  as  was  quite  refreshing 
to  see.  Master  Shakspeare  was  courteous 
as  was  his  wont;  but  still  he  could  not  help 
maiwelhng  v/hat  brought  his  visitor  to  him, 
for  they  had  never  been  on  any  notable  inti- 
macy. After  awhile,  Master  Greene  sat 
himself  on  the  end  of  the  bed,  for  he  would 
not  accept  of  the  stool,  though  it  was  pressed 
on  him  with  some  urgency.  Then  he  talked 
of  the  Queen  of  Scots'  execution,  and  the 
last  conspiracy  of  the  papists,  and  other 
matter  of  news,  as  glibly  as  an  intelligencer ; 
to  which  the  other  listened  with  the  utmost 
civilness,  joining  in  the  discourse  when  it 
seemed  necessary,  yet  wondering  exceed- 
ingly such  a  person  should  put  himself  to 
the  trouble  of  calling  on  him  merely  to  talk 
to  him  on  subjects  with  which  every  one 
was  familiar.  At  last  the  conversation 
gradually  approached  the  subject  of  plays. 

"That  play  of  Lodge's  went  bravely," 
said  be  ;  "  but  I  said  it  needs  must  succeed 
when  I  heard  it  read  by  you.  Surely  you 
must  have  made  marvellous  alterations.  I 
detected  them  on  the  instant.  I  did,  by  this 
hand !  Indeed  they  were  filled  with  such 
exquisite  beauty,  it  was  clean  impossible 
they  should  pass  for  the  invention  of  Lodge, 
who,  between  ourselves,  is  exceeding  shal- 
low— a  sorry  scribbler,  who  hath  written 
nought  deserving  of  serious  commendation." 

"  Nay,  Master  Lodge  is  not  without  mer- 
it," replied  his  companion. 

"  Merit  he  hath,  it  may  be  allowed,"  re  ■ 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


sponded  the  other;  "but  be  assured  'tis 
monstrous  little.  He  could  never  write  a 
play  of  any  judgment,  believe  me.  Mere 
bombast  for  passion,  dullness  for  wit ;  and  by 
way  of  dialogue,  the  mos-  tedious  poor  stutF 
that  ever  was  writ.  A  knowledge  of  this 
made  me  the  more  aduiire  your  wondrous 
excellent  genius  in  fashioning  so  admirable 
line  a  play  out  of  such  sorry  materials." 

"  I  did  as  well  as  my  poor  ability  would 
allow,"  observed  the  young  player.  "  But 
for  mine  own  part,  1  think  not  so  highly  of  it. 
I  trust  I  may  live  to  do  much  better  things." 

"  Ay,  that  shall  you,  Master  Shakspeare !" 
exclaimed  Master  Greene,  very  earnestly. 
"And  I  will  do  all  that  in  my  power  lieth  to 
put  you  in  the  way  of  attaining  the  excel- 
lence you  desire." 

"  I  am  much  beholden  to  you,  good  sir," 
said  William  Shakspeare. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all — O'  my  life  !  my 
sweet  friend,  cried  tbe  play  writer;  "it  is 
your  merit  commands  it.  I  am  right  glad 
and  happy  to  be  of  service  to  so  estimable  a 
gentleman.  By  the  way,  I  prophesied  from 
tlie  moment  I  noted  your  first  appearance  on 
the  stage,  you  would,  ere  long,  distinguish 
yourself  famously.  I  saw  it  in  you ;  I  did 
by  this  hand."  Now,  considering  that  the 
speaker  was  one  of  the  bitterest  of  those 
who  spoke  so  slightingly  of  the  young  player 
at  the  ta])ster's,  it  was  somewhat  bold  of  him, 
and  impudent  witlial,  to  venture  such  an  as- 
sertion as  this  last,  but  his  companion  was 
not  of  a  nature  to  treasure  up  slights,  and 
he  took  what  was  told  him  as  truly  genuine 
kindness. 

"  It  is  scarce  fitting  of  me  to  speak  of  my 
own  works,"  continued  Master  Greene,  in 
some  manner  that  was  meant  to  be  hugely 
modest.  "  Methinks  they  should  speak  for 
themselves.  There  is  my  play  of  '  The 
History  of  Orlando  Furioso,'  which,  as  it 
hath  taken  so  well  of  all  judges,  leaveth  me 
nought  to  say  of  it.  There  is  another  of 
mine,  '  A  Looking-Glass  for  London  and 
England,'  the  pojjularity  of  which  is  even 
greater  than  the  preceding.  Again,  there 
is  '  The  honorable  History  of  Friar  Bacon 
and  Friar  Bungay,'  that  hath  been  no  less 
praised  ;  and  also, '  The  Comical  History  of 
Alphonsus,  King  of  Arragon,'  held  in  simi- 
lar great  liking :  but  surely  my  plays  must 
be  familiar  enough  to  you,  they  having  had 
such  marvellous  success." 

"  In  uiost  of  them  I  have  played,"  replied 
the  other ;  "  and  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 
they  were  amazingly  relished  of  the  audi- 
ence." 

"  Indeed,  I  have  no  reason  to  be  dissatis- 
fied with  my  writings,"  added  his  compan- 


ion ;  therefore,  it  seemeth  to  me  that  I  should 
be  an  exceeding  proper  person  to  give  you 
assistance  in  any  such  performances,  design 
you,  as  you  should,  to  essay  furtlier  efforts 
at  the  writing  of  plays." 

William  Shakspeare  remembered,  that 
Master  Greene  was  of  some  note  for  his 
learning,  having  taken  degrees  at  both  Ox- 
ford and  Cambridge;  and,  being  an  experi- 
enced play-writer,  seemed  a  very  fit  person 
to  give  instructions  in  whatever  he  might  be 
deficient. 

"Truly  I  shall  be  glad  of  your  friendly 
advice,  worthy  sir,"  replied  he  ;  "  and  I  thank 
you  very  heartily  for  being  so  kindly  dis- 
posed toward  me." 

"  Believe  me,  it  all  cometh  of  my  love  of 
your  extreme  worthiness.  Master  Shaks- 
peare !"  exclaimed  the  other,  with  a  seem- 
ing wonderful  sincerity.  "  O'  my  life,  I  would 
do  anything  within  my  compass  for  your  ad- 
vantage ;  and  this  affectionateness  leadeth 
me  novv  to  offer  to  write  a  play  with  yon  as 
speeduy  as  may  be  most  to  your  liking,  after 
the  manner  usual  in  such  cases  ;  that  is  to 
say,  you  shall  write  such  a  part  of  it,  and  I 
will  write  another  part  of  it,  on  a  design 
beforehand  approved  of  us  both." 

"  I  care  not  how  soon  we  set  about  it, 
Master  Greene,"  answered  his  companion 
very  readily. 

"Then  meet  me  at  Paul's,  after  the  play 
is  over  to-day,  and  we  will  talk  the  matter 
more  at  length,"  said  the  play-writer,  rising  to 
take  his  leave,  with  an  aspect  of  considera- 
ble satisfaction.  "  But  one  thing  before  I 
leave  you,  my  dear  sweet  friend — on  no  ac- 
count mention  what  we  are  about  doing  to 
Kit  Marlowe,  or  any  other  writer  of  plays. 
Between  ourselves,  Kit  is  a  horrible  slippery 
sort  of  a  person,  a  desperate  coney-catcher ; 
and  his  companions  Lodge,  Peeie,  and  Nash, 
are  no  better  than  he.  You  will  do  well  in 
having  nought  to  do  with  such." 

The  young  player  promised  to  say  nothing 
of  the' matter;  and  soon  after,  with  an 
abundance  of  friendliness,  the  visitor  took 
his  leave.  He  had  not  been  gone  many 
mimites,  when  a  quick  step  was  heard  as- 
cending the  .stairs,  and  presently  in  came 
Kit  Marlowe,  apparently  in  an  exriuisite 
good  humor,  full  of  boisterous  greeting,  and 
laughing  and  talking  as  though  his  young 
host  and  he  had  been  boon  companions  a 
thousand  years.  He  too  sat  himself  at  the 
bed's  ibot,  and  after  the  first  great  gladness 
of  meeting  was  over,  talked  very  freely  all 
manner  of  gossip,  intermixed  with  jests,  or 
such  as  were  intended  to  pass  for  such,  and 
a  continual  accompaniment  of  laughing, 
which  proved  at  least,  he  could  relish  his 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


23& 


own  wit.  He  too,  after  a  fit  interval,  led 
the  discmirso  almost  imperceptibly  to  plays, 
and  when  lie  got  I'airly  hold  of  Master 
Lodge's  production,  he  broke  out  into  such 
praises  of  the  amendments,  as  far  exceeded 
what  Master  Greene  had  said. 

"  As  for  Lodge,  I  marvel  he  should  attempt 
play- writing,"  added  he  ;  "  tiiere  is  more  wit 
in  a  sour  hedge  crab,  than  in  all  he  hath 
done,  which  showeth  what  sweet  grafting  he 
must  have  had,  to  have  produced  sucli  good- 
ly fruit  as  the  last.  Indeed,  it  hath  a  most 
luscious  flavor ;  as  dilferent  to  that  of  the 
old  stock  as  is  honey  to  verjuice.  But  'tis 
natural  enough,  that  whatsoever  forceth  one 
to  make  a  wry  face,  as  have  I  scores  of 
times,  I  warrant  you,  at  Lodge's  poor  per- 
formances, must  needs  be  of  manifest  un- 
ripeness." 

"  Surely,  you  hardly  do  him  justice.  Mas- 
ter Marlowe  ?"  observed  the  young  player. 

"  Justice,  quotha  !"  exclaimed  his  com- 
panion, with  a  loud  laugh ;  "  by  this  light, 
had  he  justice,  he  would  be  badly  off  indeed. 
Nay,  nay,  Master  Shakspeare,  he  is  as  bar- 
ren as  a  whipping  post;  therefore  am  I  bet- 
ter able  to  acknowledge  the  merit  which  is 
your  due  in  altering  of  his  play.  You  have 
transmuted  his  baseness  into  a  most  sterling 
commodity.  But  you  must  not  rest  here,  my 
friend;  you  are  let  slip,  and  you  must  for- 
ward now  like  a  true  hound." 

••  Be  assured,  I  would  not  throw  away  an 
opportunity  for  advancing  myself,  carnc  it  in 
my  way,"  said  William  Shakspeare. 

"  rfaith,  you  would  be  notably  to  blame, 
were  you  to  do  so,"  added  tho  other.  "  Now, 
you  know  I  have  written  some  few  trifles  ; 
for  instance,  there  is  my  '  Tamburlaine  the 
Great ;'  there  is  my  '  Doctor  Faustus  ;'  there 
is  my  '  Jew  of  Malta ;'  there  is  my  '  Massa- 
cre of  Paris  ;'  and  thej-e  are  also  one  or  two 
other  similar  affairs  of  my  unworthy  endit- 
ing ;  I  tliiuk  but  poorly  of  them — but  it  hath 
pleased  his  worship  the  World  to  have  a 
different  opinion.  Mayhap,  his  worship  is 
an  ass  ;  but  trust  me,  I  will  not  quarrel  with 
him,  whilst  he  beareth  me  on  his  back  as 
bravely  as  he  doth.  Nevertlieless,  be  my 
plays  well  or  ill,  they  take,  which  methinks 
is  the  main  point ;  and  it  showeth  I  have 
some  sort  of  skiUfulness  in  knowing  what 
will  please." 

'•  Doubtless  !"  replied  his  companion. 

"  Now  my  dear  sweet  friend,"  continued 
the  other  very  cordially,  "  it  is  evident  you 
are  possessed  of  a  like  quality,  else  could 
not  Lodge's  play  have  the  success  it  hath 
met  with :  therefore  I  have  devised  a  plan, 
by  which  we  may  both  profit  exceedingly, 
and  hold  the  field  against  all  comers." 


"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  William  Shaks- 
peare, in  some  sort  of  surprise. 

"  Ay,  my  dear  rogue,  and  this  is  my  plan," 
replied  Kit  Marlowe,  "  we  two  will  club  our 
wits  and  write  a  play  in  conjunction.  I 
will  bring  forth  what  gifts  I  have  that  have 
so  long  been  wont  to  please  the  public,  and 
you  shall  add  to  them  the  same  inimitable 
I  choice  talent  you  have  already  shown  in 
'  your  first  efforts  ;  and  the  result  cannot  help 
being  such  a  play  as  the  world  hath  never 
yet  seen,  and  which  shall  at  once  place  us 
far  above  the  paltry  bombastic  scribblers 
who  now  thrust  their  worthless  inventions 
on  the  stage.  What  sayest.  Master  Shaks- 
peare ?  How  dost  affect  this  plan  of  mine 
my  sweet  friend  ?" 

"  In  honest  truth  I  like  it  well  enough, 
Master  Marlowe,"  replied  his  companion, 
holding  in  mind  the  other's  reputation  as  a 
writer  of  plays,  which  at  that  time  stood  se- 
cond to  none.  "If  you  think  it  will  be  at- 
tended with  such  famous  results,  we  will 
commence  it  as  soon  as  you  please." 

"  Well  said,  my  heart  of  oak  !"  cried  the 
other,  now  rising  with  a  notable  pleased 
countenance,  "  I  will  call  on  you  this  time 
to-morrow  to  confer  further  on  the  matter. 
But  I  charge  you,  break  not  a  word  of  it 
to  Greene,  or  Peele,  or  Nash,  or  any  of  that 
set ;  and  have  no  dealings  with  them  on  any 
account.  There  is  neither  conscience, 
truth,  nor  honesty  in  them.  They  are  coz- 
eners all ;  and  that  Greene,  he  is  the  very 
blackest  sheep  of  the  flock.  Keep  aloof 
from  them,  I  beseech  you,  else  you  \\ill  suf- 
fer for  it  terribly  ;  and  I  promise  you,  if  you 
will  allow  of  my  true  friendship,  I  will,  ere 
any  very  long  time  hath  passed,  put  you  in 
such  good  case,  you  shall  consider  fortune 
and  yourself  are  sworn  brothers."  So  say- 
ing, and  with  as  prodigal  a  show  of  atfec- 
tionateness  as  Master  Greene  had  exhibited 
in  his  leave  taking.  Kit  Marlowe  also  de- 
parted. 

The  young  player  marvelled  somewhat 
that  persons  of  such  reputation  as  were  his 
two  visitors,  should  come  to  one  obscure  as 
himself  on  such  an  errand  ;  but  he  thought 
there  might  be  advancement  for  him  in 
availing  himself  of  their  ofl'ers,  and  there- 
fore very  gladly  accepted  them.  Their 
abuse  of  each  other,  and  of  their  compan- 
ions, amused  him,  for  he  saw  thoroughly  in- 
to it.  Wliilst  he  was  engaged  in  reflections 
upon  tliese  visits,  another  step  on  the  stairs 
betokened  another  visitor,  and  in  came 
Peele.  He  went  through  much  the  same 
sort  of  scene  as  his  predecessors,  exhibited 
the  like  extravagant  joy  at  meeting — gos- 
sipped  about  similar  indifferent  subjects,  till 


236 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SIIAKSPEARI3. 


he  skilfully  led  the  converse  to  plays — 
abused  Lodge  as  heartily  as  the  other.-;  had 
done,  and  spoke  witJi  tlie  same  liberality  ol" 
comnifMidation  on  the  ainondinonls  of  Wil- 
]ia;ii  Shikspeare,  proposed  to  write  a  play 
conjointly  with  the  yoiinjf  player — and  uttor 
warnino-  him  against  his  brother  play  wri- 
ters, more  especially  against  Greene  and 
Marlowe  as  notorious  bad  characters,  ho 
took  his  leave.  He  was  followed  by  Chet- 
tle,  Kyd,  Nash,  and  others  of  the  play  wri- 
ters, all  of  whom,  in  much  the  same  sort  of 
routine,  either  olfdred  to  write  plays  with 
him,  or  brouglit  him  plays  they  had  already 
writ,  to  do  as  he  liked  by,  or  some  they  had 
commenced,  to  get  hi;n  to  hnish  as  it  pleased 
him  best.  Anl  every  oua — albeit,  forgetful 
how  greatlyth.ey  had  previously  abused  him, 
came  in  such  lashion  as  seemed  most  to  ap- 
prove thidr  extraordinary  love  of  him;  and 
none  departed  without  denouncing  all  of  Ids 
companions,  wlio  had  gone  before,  or  were 
like  to  coaio  after. 

The  young  player  answered  tliem  as  well 
as  he  could — monstrously  amused  at  the 
whole  atiair,  for  he  had  wit  enough  to  see 
what  they  aimed  at ;  but  resolved,  as  far  as 
he  could,  to  make  them  subservient  to  his 
own  particular  advancemsni;.  In  tliis  me- 
thinks  he  showed  his  v>'isdom ;  for  as  affairs 
stood,  it  was  not  at  all  possible  for  him  to 
make  way  eitlier  as  a  player,  or  a  play  wri- 
ter without  some  such  assistance.  The 
(nanager  was  as  inveterate  against  him  as 
ever,  because  the  success  of  the  piece  VVd- 
liam  Shakspeare  had  taken  in  hanrj,  convic- 
ted him  in  the  eyes  of  his  associates  of  pos- 
sessing a  marvellous  lack  of  judgment  He 
could  plain  enough  see  the  great  m-^r.t  of  the 
alterations,  but  his  wounded  se.f-iove  now 
made  his  prejudices  all  the  stronger.,  and  ho 
seemed  for  it  only  the  more  disposed  to  keep 
the  young  player's  talents  as  much  in  the 
back  ground  as  he  could.  This  unworthy 
treatment  the  latter  bore  with  wonder- 
ful sweet  patience  and  dignity  ;  neverthe- 
less it  fretted  his  high  aspiring  mind  exceed- 
ingly at  times,  and  tiie  bitter  poverty  in  which 
it  kept  hun,  expo.sed  him  to  such  humiliations 
and  sufferings  as  were  scarce  endurable. 

His  chiefest  pleasures  lay  in  hearing  of 
his  children,  which  he  never  failed  to  do 
with  a  famous  regularity,  by  the  kind  as- 
sistance of  John  a  Combe  ;  and  in  the  con- 
tinuance of  his  correspondence  with  the 
lovely  Mistress  D'Avenant,  who  more  and 
more  developed  to  his  quick  perceptions  the 
prodigal  gifts  of  mind  and  heart  of  v/hich 
she  was  possessed.  It  is  to  be  e.vpected  tha. 
their  correspond"nce  should  be  marked  with 
a  tone  of  more  endearing  earnestness  as  they 


made  more  familiar  acquaintance  with  each 
other's  manifold  loving  virtues.  This  in- 
sensibly took  place  as  their  intimacy  pro- 
ceeded. The  language  of  passionate  devo- 
tion mingled  in  greater  portion  with  graver 
discourse.  Intellect  came  warmed  with  a 
more  endearing  |)hilosophy,  and  sympathy 
took  on  it.Sclf  sweeter  and  deeper  feeling. 
This  change  was  first  evident  in  Mistress 
D'Avenant,  and  indeed  it  continued  most 
conspicuous  in  lier  correspondence.  It 
seemed  as  though  she  could  set  no  bounds 
to  heraifeciion  for  one  of  so  truly  loving  a 
nature,  and  that  it  would  scarce  be  justice  if 
her  admiration  of  his  genius  came  not  to  the 
utmo.st  extravagance  of  idolatry.  Never  did 
any  woman  show  a  more  generous  self- 
abandonment  upon  the  altar  of  true  devo- 
tion ;  but  in  this,  as  she  imagined  no  ill,  she 
believed  no  ill  could  exist.  She  felt  herself 
ennobled  by  her  feelings,  and  thought  she 
could  not  sutficiently  testify  her  gratitude  to 
the  honorable  source  whence  they  sprung. 

Her  frequent  writing  was  of  essential  ser- 
vice, for  she  never  failed  to  hold  out  to  him 
the  most  brilliant  hopes.  Nothing  seemed 
she  to  love  so  much  as  the  picturing  of  his 
future  greatness  ;  and  her  appreciation  of 
his  wortii  was  such,  that  these  anticipations 
were  beyond  all  things  magniticent.  She 
piled  up  a  very  pyramid  of  hopes  to  his 
honor,  which  she  fondly  believed  should  last 
unto  eternity.  This  not  only  fired  his  am- 
bition, but  kept  the  liame  burning  with  an 
increasing  brightness — but  it  did  more — the 
high  opinion  of  his  desert,  which  it  evinced, 
awakened  and  kept  alive  in  him  a  deep  con- 
tinual anxiousness  to  make  his  conduct  ac- 
cord with  it  as  much  as  was  possible.  Per- 
chance this  occasioned  that  marvellous 
sweet  patience  he  exhibited  under  the  petty 
tyranny  of  the  elder  Burbage,  and  that  free- 
dom from  every  sort  of  discreditableness 
shown  by  him  whilst  suffering  the  fiercest 
pressure  of  poverty.  It  is  here  necessaiy 
to  add  that  in  his  frequent  letters  to  his  af- 
fectionate sweet  friend  at  Oxford  he  gave  no 
intimation  of  the  poorness  of  his  estate,  so 
that  she  was  in  complete  ignorance  of  his 
sufferings  and  privations.  This  arose  partly 
from  a  certain  delicacy  which  kept  him  from 
acquainting  her  with  such  matters;  and  in 
some  measure,  from  a  peculiar  pride  which 
allowed  hiin  not  to  betray  the  immense  dif- 
ference of  his  case  betwixt  what  she  desired 
and  what  he  endured.  But  to  give  the  rea- 
der a  proper  understanding  of  her  character, 
methinks  it  will  be  necessary  tu  introduce 
here  some  specimen  of  the  style  and  matter 
of  her  writing.  Here  followeth  an  extract 
from  one  of  her  letters : — 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


237 


"  Let  me  beseech  of  you  to  take  sufficient 
heed  of  yourself,  so  that  no  hurt  follow  those 
deep  studies  to  which,  you  tell  me,  you  give 
all  your  leisure.  Remember  that  this  con- 
stant wear  and  tear  of  the  mind  is  infinitely 
destructive  of  the  body.  I  am  fearful  your 
extreme  ardor  to  fulfil  your  glorious  destiny 
may  bring  you  to  a  halt  ere  half  the  journey 
hath  been  accomplished.  Think  of  this.  I 
pray  you  essay  to  curb  in  your  impetuous 
spirits.  He  who  would  win  a  race  starteth 
not  off  at  the  top  of  his  strength,  whereby 
he  might  soon  spend  his  energies ;  but  be- 
ginncth  at  a  fair  pace,  whicli  he  can  Iceep 
up  without  fear  of  exhaustion,  and  mayliap 
increase  where  there  sliall  appear  need  of  it. 
Ever  bear  in  mind  the  greatness  of  the  prize 
for  which  you  are  running;  and  never  part 
with  the  conviction  that  it  cannot  help  being 
yours,  use  you  but  common  prudence  in  its 
attainment.  I  often  find  myself  wishing  I 
were  with  you,  that  1  might  see  your  health 
suffered  nothing  by  your  studiousness.  1 
doubt  not  I  should  keep  such  excellent 
watch  for  your  safety  as  should  be  an  ex- 
ample to  all  vigilant  officers  ;  and  surely 
this  is  the  more  fitting  of  me,  knowing  as  1 
do,  above  all  others,  the  exceeding  covetable 
preciousness  of  such  a  charge. 

"  But  as  with  you  I  cannot  be,  I  hope  you 
will  allow  of  my  desires  exerting  their  salu- 
tary influence  as  my  poor  thoughts  express 
them  in  this  present  writing.  To  live  to 
see  you  so  proudly  circumstanced  as  your 
merit  gives  you  fairest  title  to,  is  what  I  most 
fervently  hope  for.  This,  as  it  seemeth  to 
me,  can  only  be  marred  by  your  own  want 
of  proper  care  of  yourself;  and  having 
marked  how  marvellous  little  of  the  selfish 
principle  exists  in  your  disposition,  I  cannot 
help,  at  times,  dreading  the  consequence. 
Pardon  me  my  importunity — I  must  again 
beseecii  you  to  be  heedful.  Let  me  at  least 
have  the  exquisite  consolation  of  knowing 
that  my  life  hath  been  for  some  good  pur- 
pose ;  for  should  it  be  my  ill  hap  to  behold 
you,  from  want  of  proper  guardianship,  fall 
short  of  my  expectations,  1  should  from  that 
moment  consider,  and  with  strict  justice,  my 
existence  to  have  been  a  blank.  But  what 
I  am,  or  may  be,  must  be  of  little  moment 
in  so  important  a  matter.  I  would  rather 
you  should  keep  in  mind  the  thousands  and 
ten  of  thousands  to  whose  delight  your  bril- 
liant dpstiny  calleth  you  to  minister.  In 
brief,  do  for  yourself  as  I  desire  of  you  ;  and 
all  people,  all  times,  and  all  countries  shall 
look  to  you  as  their  chief  debtor. 

"  I  believe  the  amount  of  human  happiness 
to  be  none  so  large  in  comparison  with  the 
countless  numbers  that  would  draw  upon  it ; 


and  look  upon  such  persons  as  yourself — 
Ah  !  where  shall  I  find  me  such  another ! — 
as  keepers  of  banks  who  are  wont  to  issue 
their  own  coinage  for  to  bu  circulated  gener- 
ally— to  the  vast  increase  of  comfort  in  the 
whole  community.  Having  this  office,  never 
forget  for  one  single  moment  how  great  is 
your  responsibility.  Should  any  accident 
happen  to  prevent  tlie  proper  fulfilment  of 
your  services,  how  much  will  the  world  lose 
of  what  is  most  sterling  and  necessary. 
Perchance  for  lack  of  such,  all  manner  of 
baseness  may  be  made  to  pass  for  the  true 
coinage,  and  poverty  become  more  general 
by  reason  of  the  spreading  of  such  worthless 
counterfeits.  I  conjure  you  be  regardful  in 
this  point.  Take  what  recreation  cometh  to 
your  hand.  Meet  you  with  disappointments 
or  mishaps,  look  on  them  as  the  natural  lets 
of  life,  and  pass  them  by  with  the  proper  in- 
diilerency  that  should  belong  to  a  philoso- 
phic mind.  Envy  you  may  meet  with — slan- 
der you  may  meet  with — which  Vv'ith  injus- 
tice, insolence,  and  oppression,  mayhap  will 
seek  to  stop  your  way — for  these  are  the 
comnion  obstacles  to  greatness  in  its  earlv 
development ;  but  of  such, — I  know  you 
will  make  of  them  mere  straws  tliat  shall 
not  hinder  you  a  step.  It  is  of  yourself  I 
fear.  No  one  else  can  prove  himself  your 
real  enemy.  Take  care  then  of  yourself. 
Watch  yourself  narrowly.  Strengthen  your- 
self by  all  possible  means  ;  and  by  so  doing, 
marvel  not  that  you  weaken  the  power  of 
yourself  to  do  your  fortunes  injury. 

"  I  expect  you  to  bear  with  me  for  my  so 
constant  repetition  of  this  my  request.  My 
zeal  will  not  allow  of  my  stopping  short  in 
endeavors  so  paramount  for  the  securing  of 
your  weliare.  You  are  to  me  all  wisdom, 
virtue,  and  excellence — all  nobleness,  all 
honor,  all  truth,  charity,  and  love.  In  the 
spirit  of  the  devout  worshippers  of  old,  I  am 
not  content  with  the  conviction  that  the  tem- 
ple at  which  I  pay  my  devotions  is  the  wor- 
thiest in  the  whole  world  ;  I  would  lay  such 
liberal  ofierings  on  the  altar  as  should  go  far 
to  make  it  so.  I  devote  all  my  acquirements 
to  its  use — such  treasures  as  I  have  in  my 
thoughts,  feehngs,  hopes,  blessings,  and 
prayers,  I  give  as  jewels  to  em-ich  so  admi- 
rable a  shrine — and  all  I  dare  desire  for  my- 
self for  so  doing,  is  that  when  the  edifice 
hath  attained  its  deserved  celebrity, — and 
far  and  near  come  throngs  of  earnest  wor- 
shippers,— in  the  innermost  sanctuary  there 
should  be  one  little  nook  concealed  from  the 
vulgar  eye,  wherein  should  be  entombed  the 
heart  of  her  whose  deep  affections  helped  to 
secure  its  fame." 

On  a  nature  like  that  of  William  Shaks- 


338 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


peare,  it  was  not  possible  for  such  an  inti- 
macy so  conducted,  to  exist  without  produ- 
cing the  best  effect.  There  could  not  be  a 
more  different  person  than  was  he  at  this 
time  to  what  he  had  been  the  first  two  years 
of  his  marriage.  He  was  proud  of  being 
loved  by  so  noble  a  woman.  He  felt  there 
was  in  it  an  honor,  which  for  real  value  the 
objects  of  his  highest  ambition  could  not  ex- 
ceed ;  and  this  raised  him  so  far  above  the 
lowness  of  his  condition  that  he  was  enabled 
to  endure  it  as  well  as  he  did.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  this  last  letter  remained  unan- 
Bwered  a  long  while,  which  made  him  write 
again ;  but  he  heard  not  of  her  any  the  more, 
which  filled  him  with  some  uneasiness,  for 
she  was  ordinarily  most  punctual  in  her 
writing.  Not  knowing  whether  his  letters 
had  miscarried,  or  that  she  had  been  taken 
with  any  sudden  illness,  he  felt  in  some  way 
perplexed  as  to  what  would  be  best  for  him 
to  do.  On  the  morning  that  the  play-writers 
had  shown  towards  him  such  exceeding 
friendliness,  after  he  had  got  rid  of  the  last 
some  half  hour  or  so,  and  believed  he  should 
have  no  more  such  visits,  he  heard  another 
footstep  which  put  him  into  no  little  discon- 
tent, for  he  was  tired  of  such  company. 
Nevertheless  seeing  he  could  not  well  do 
otherwise,  he  resigned  himself  to  his  fate, 
and  when  a  knock  was  heard  at  his  door, 
bade  his  new  visitor  enter.  Thereupon  the 
door  opened,  and  to  his  exceeding  wonder, 
who  should  appear  at  it  but  Mistress  D'Ave- 
nant,  and  to  his  greater  astonishment  she 
was  attired  in  the  ordinary  mourning  of  a 
widow. 

The  sort  of  greeting  may  be  imagined  be- 
tween two  such  persons  under  such  circum- 
stances ;  but  still  there  was  something  in  it 
not  likely  to  be  conceived  of  any.  It  ap- 
peared that  John  D'Avenant  had  been  at- 
tacked with  a  fierce  disease,  and  all  the  time 
it  lasted  his  wife  attended  him  so  closely  day 
and  night,  she  luul  not  a  moment  to  spare 
for  any  otlier  purpose.  It  is  true  he  had 
been  any  thing  rather  than  a  proper  hus- 
band to  her  ;  and  his  own  unworthiness  had 
brought  him  to  ins  present  condition  ;  but  in 
her  eyes  these  facts  could  be  no  bar  to  her 
showing  of  him  in  his  extremity  the  proper 
duties  of  a  wife  :  whereof  tiie  consequence 
was  her  unremitting  kind  nursing  of  him  to 
the  very  moment  of  liis  deatli,  so  exhausted 
her,  that  she  was  fain  to  keep  her  bed  for 
some  weeks  after.  On  her  recovery  she 
thought,  instead  of  writing  to  the  young 
player,  she  would  be  herself  the  bearer  of  tiie 
intelligence,  and  thereupon  proceeded  to 
London.  At  liie  play-house  where  she  had 
been  used  to  direct  her  letters,  she  learned 


his  address,  and  not  long  after  that  she  ar- 
rived at  his  lodgings.  Perchance,  this  be- 
havior of  hers  may  be  thought  monstrous  ir- 
regular by  many  ;  but  as  she  sought  no  evil, 
she  took  in  no  sort  of  consideration  any  one's 
opinion  on  the  matter.  In  their  meeting 
there  seemed  a  mutual  restraint — in  lier  it 
seemed  to  arise  from  the  overpowering  in- 
fluence of  her  fi'clings — in  iiim  it  was  tlie 
result  of  an  embarrassing  idea,  that  at  once 
and  for  the  first  time  presented  itself  to  his 
mind. 

During  his  stay  at  Oxford  he  had  never 
alluded  to  his  own  marriage,  perchance  as 
much  from  dislike  of  the  subject  as  from  im- 
agining such  allusion  to  be  unnecessary  ; 
and  in  his  after  correspondence  the  feeling 
which  prevented  him  troubling  her  with  his 
own  j)articular  griefs,  kept  him  silent  on  the 
matter.  Thus,  his  youth  and  his  general 
conduct,  might,  he  thought,  have  impressed 
her  with  the  belief  tliat  he  was  unmarried  ; 
and  his  ardent  affection  for  her  which  he  had 
made  too  conspicuous  to  be  mistaken,  might 
now  have  brought  her  to  London,  with  the 
conviction  he  would  immediately  make  her 
his  wife.  There  is  no  doubt  nothing  would 
have  given  him  such  true  pleasure  as  the 
fulfilling  of  such  expectations,  had  he  the 
power  of  so  doing,  but  knowing  its  utter  im- 
possibility, and  the  terrible  disappointment 
the  knowledge  of  it  might  create  in  a  confi- 
ding loving  woman,  he  was  for  some  min- 
utes perfectly  bewildered  as  to  what  he 
shoiikl  do  for  the  best.  However,  being  well 
convinced  that  to  delay  making  her  acquain- 
ted with  his  real  situation,  would  but  in- 
crease the  likelihood  of  evil,  he  determined 
to  break  it  to  her  as  gently  as  he  could  with- 
out loss  of  time.  Thereupon  he  took  occa- 
sion as  they  conversed  togetlier,  to  speak  of 
his  children,  doing  it  in  such  a  manner  as 
miglit  gradually  prepare  her  for  the  know- 
ledge of  his  marriage  ;  after  which  he  in- 
formed iier  of  the  circumstances  under  whicli 
it  had  takon  place,  and  without  imputing 
blame  to  any  save  himself,  gave  her  such 
insight  into  its  unhappiness,  as  he  thought 
necessary. 

Perchance  Mistress  D'Avenant  had  en- 
tertained some  notion  of  being  made  liis  wifis, 
as  she  could  not  but  be  aware  how  dear  she 
was  to  him,  for  on  her  perceiving  the  purport 
of  his  converse,  her  beautiful  countenance 
suddenly  took  on  it  the  paleness  o^^"  death. 
There  was  a  fixed  unmeaning  stare  in  her 
brilliant  eyes,  and  a  sort  of  quick  swallow- 
ing at  her  throat ;  but  these  signs  passed  al- 
1  most  on  tiie  insthnt  they  made  Uioir  appear- 
ance, and  she  presently  listened  to  this  unex- 
'  peeled  intelligence  with  scarce  more  Uian 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


239 


an  ordinary  interest.  Doubtless  the  disap- 
pointment liad  been  poignant  enough ;  but 
she  was  of  too  noble  a  disposition  to  betray 
her  real  feelings,  seeing  it  could  only  coulri- 
bute  to  her  lover's  unhappiness  ;  and  lieard 
him  out  without  interruption. 

"  'Tis  marvellous  our  fortunes  shoiild 
have  been  so  much  alike,"  observed  she. 
"  Like  you  I  married  too  young  to  know 
what  I  was  preparing  for  myself,  and  in  per- 
fect ignorance  of  the  nature  of  the  person 
to  whom  I  was  united.  Like  you  I  have 
been  deceived  by  fair  appearances,  and  after 
the  discovery  of  the  huge  mistake  I  had 
made,  lived  a  life  of  hopes  overthrown,  and 
cares  which  everyday  made  less  endurable. 
When  I  became  honored  with  your  acquain- 
tance, a  new  light  shone  on  my  path.  I  felt 
I  could  endure  a  martyrdom  but  to  seem 
worthy  in  your  eyes.  Although  I  cpiickly 
loved  you  with  my  every  feeling,  from  the 
moment  I  coveted  your  affection,  I  bent  my 
mind  and  my  heart  so  to  my  duties  as  a 
wife,  that  the  most  exacting  husband  could 
have  found  in  me  no  manner  of  fault — for  I 
had  in  me  the  conviction,  that  one  who  was 
amiss  as  a  wife,  must  needs  be  unworthy  as 
a  woman,  and  that  such  a  woman  had  no 
shadow  of  title  to  the  sympathy  of  a  dispo- 
sition so  allied  to  excellence  as  your  own." 

The  young  player  replied  not  to  this  ; 
save  only  as  he  sat  by  her  side,  the  hand  lie 
had  hitherto  held  in  his  own,  he  fondly 
raised  to  his  lips.    She  continued  : — 

"  When  I  learned  I  was  loved  by  you,  it 
gave  me  a  value  in  mine  own  eyes  I  knew 
not  till  then.  I  appeared  as  though  I  had  at- 
tained the  very  noblest  and  most  glorious 
dignity  a  woman  could  possess.  How  liber- 
ally you  garnished  my  poor  state  with  the 
wondrous  magnificence  of  your  genius,  I 
have  not  power  enough  of  language  to  state  ; 
but  on  every  fresh  occasion,  you  bound  my 
nature  to  you  with  a  chain  more  precious 
than  gold,  and  more  durable  than  adamant. 
Believe  me  I  am  grateful ;  but  I  despair  of 
ever  being  grateful  enough.  In  the  after 
time,  when  1  hear — as  hear  I  must — the  uni- 
versal voice  breathing  your  immortal  praises 
over  the  land,  methinks  I  cannot  help  being 
the  proudest  creature  on  the  earth,  for  1  can 
feed  my  heart  with  the  exquisite  sweet  truth 
that  I,  a  humble  creature  of  no  worldly  rank 
or  quality  whatsoever,  was  singled  out,  es- 
teemed, and  loved  of  so  truly  honorable  a 
person." 

"  Ay,  dearest,  truest,  and  best  of  all  wo- 
men !"  exclaimed  her  lover  as  he  rapturously 
pressed  her  to  his  breast.  "  But  there  is  a 
truth  that  methinks  would  be  still  more  satis- 
factory to  you  at  such  a  time,  and  that  is — 


your  desert  alone  made  me  enamored,  and 
by  the  proper  influence  of  the  same  admira- 
ble cause,  I  continued  in  the  same  fond  feel- 
ing. Think  you  I  have  no  call  for  gratitude  ? 
Surely  I  have  far  more  need  to  show  it  than 
yourself  ?  I  doubt  not  at  all,  had  it  not  been 
my  inestimable  good  fortune  to  have  Ibund 
myself  at  such  a  time  supported  by  your  en- 
couraging and  ennobling  hopes,  I  should 
have  sunk  under  the  harrassing  vexatious 
toils  and  troubles  which  met  me  at  every 
turn.  Truly  I  am  wondrously  indebted  to 
you  ;  never  was  service  so  great  as  that  which 
you  have  done  me  ;  and  if  ever  I  should  rise 
to  that  lofty  summit  your  atiections  have  de- 
clared accessible,  believe  me  I  shall  attribute 
— in  nought  but  strict  justice — the  whole 
honor  of  it  to  her  whose  bountiful  sweet 
goodness  brought  it  within  my  compass.  At 
present  I  have  nought  better  to  ofTer  as  a 
proof  of  the  grateful  sense  I  entertain  of 
your  most  prodigal  kindness,  save  the  im- 
perishable feelings  it  hath  awakened.  All 
of  me  which  I  believe  to  be  worthy  of  com- 
mendation— every  proper  thought — every 
excellent  sympathy — each  sensation,  impulse 
and  sentiment  that  most  deserves  entertain- 
ment, do  declare  my  love  of  you.  If  such 
love  content  you  well,  count  on  it  for  the 
lasting  of  my  life.  I  am  yours,  and  if,  as 
you  have  afforded  me  such  indisputable  evi- 
dence, I  may  claim  a  loving  property  in  your 
affections,  I  beseech  you  very  earnestly,  con- 
tinue me  in  the  inexpressible  delicious  com- 
fort of  believing  you  are  mine." 

"  Ah,  Master  Shakspeare,  methinks  I  lack 
not  readiness  to  do  that,"  exclaimed  Mistress 
D'Avenant  with  marvellous  impressive  ten- 
derness. "  That  I  should  be  greatly  con- 
demned for  my  conduct  is  more  than  proba- 
ble ;  but  such  condemnation  frighteneth  not 
nie.  It  seemeth  that  my  loving  you  is  ne- 
cessary to  your  happiness,  and  that  your 
liappiness  cannot  help  but  produce  a  very 
cornucopia  of  deligiits  unto  the  many  thou- 
sands that  may  come  within  your  inlluence 
The  conviction  of  the  universal  good  J  may 
effect,  maketh  my  love  to  know  no  bounds. 
I  ask  nothing — I  wish  for  nothing  but  the 
enviable  office  of  driving  all  discomforts 
from  your  neighborhood,  and  so  securing  for 
you  a  gladdening  existence.  That  my  merit 
is  so  little  I  regret,  but  if  you  hold  me  in 
such  appreciation  as  you  have  oft  made  me 
imagine,  I  am  here  the  creature  of  your 
love.  If  it  be  necessary  for  your  welfare, 
here  am  I,  ready  to  hve  for  you  in  all  loving- 
ness,  devoting  the  best  energies  of  my 
nature  to  afibrd  you  the  necessary  facilities 
for  fulfilling  your  glorious  ministry,  till  you 
become  what   I  would  have   you  be — the 


340 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


pride,  the  ornament,  and  the  benefactor  of  all 
humanity." 

How  this  loving  speech  was  received  it 
mattereth  not  to  tell ;  but  doubt  not  the 
nobleness  it  breathed  was  as  nobly  regard- 
ed. Perchance  tliere  shall  be  tbuiid  many, 
wiio  would  spy  in  the  conduct  of  Mistress 
D'Avenant  something  to  take  offence  at,  the 
which  tiieir  own  prejudices  shall  speedily 
distort  into  matter  not  to  be  tolerated ;  but 
such  persons  are  of  that  close  watching, 
magnifying  sort,  who,  if  they  find  a  flea  on 
a  neighbor's  jerkin,  straightway  hie  them 
with  a  very  microscopic  malice,  to  show  the 
world  what  a  monster  they  can  make  of  it. 
Such  methinks  are  entitled  to  no  manner  of 
consideration. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

She  stirs  I     Here's  life  ! 
Return  fair  soul  from  darkness  and  lead  mine 
Out   of  this  sensible   hell.     She's  warm  ;  she 

breathes! 
Upon  thy  pale  lips  I  will  melt  my  heart. 
To  stort  them  with  fresli  color.     Who's  there  ? 
Some  cordial  drink ! 

Her  eye  opes, 
And  Heaven  in  it  seems  to  ooe,  that  late  was 

shut 
To  take  me  up  to  mercy. 

Weester. 

The  Page  was  alone,  sitting  in  one  of  the 
unfrequented  chambers  of  his  Lord's  man- 
sion, where  he  had  of  late  been  wont  to  re- 
tire for  the  sake  of  more  perfect  privacy  in 
the  indulgence  of  his  own  thoughts.  He 
had  for  some  time  been  in  an  exceeding 
comfortless  state  of  mind.  Doubts  of  the 
Lady  Blanche's  guilt  had  grown  stronger  in 
him  at  eacii  succeeding  interview,  and  his 
huge  dislike  of  her  had  turned  to  an  affec- 
tionate sympatliy,  as  deep  and  trtie  as  ever 
rose  out  of  unmerited  suffering.  That  the 
Earl  was  the  dupe  of  some  base  villainy,  of 
which  his  wife  and  child  were  made  the 
victims,  he  could  not  help  believing;  and 
yet  the  story  of  her  shame  looked  to  be  so 
proved  against  her,  that  he  knew  not  at 
tirnes  whether  to  regard  her  conduct  as  the 
evidence  of  a  sincere  repentance,  or  of  a 
consciousness  of  perfect  innocence.  To 
him  there  appeared  something  so  truly  beau- 
tiful in  her  uncomplaining  endnraii(;o,  tliat 
whatever  she  might  have  been,  there  could 
not  be  a  doubt  in  his  mind,  she  was  of  a 
most  sweetly  dis|)osed  nature;  and  tiiis  so 
won  upon  liis  own  gontleness  of  character, 
he  felt  lie  would  gladly  lay  down  his  life  to 


prove  lier  guiltless  of  the  horrible  ofFences 
laid  to  her  charge. 

All  this  time  the  Lord  Urban  seemed  to 
be  fast  sinking  to  the  grave.  He  gave  him- 
self up  more  than  ever  to  solitary  rambles  • 
and  his  tits  of  remorse  became  daily  more 
tcn-ible.  The  murder  he  had  done  appeared 
to  be  everlastingly  in  his  thoughts ;  and  the 
sulTerings  that  came  of  it  were  of  so  moving 
a  sort,  the  beholding  of  them  must  needs 
have  softened  the  sternest  heart  in  his  favor. 
On  one  so  affectionately  inclined  as  was  his 
youthful  attendant,  the*ir  effect  may  readily 
be  conceived :  Bertram  did  all  that  faithful- 
ness and  love  could  do,  towards  bringing  his 
lord  into  a  proper  con^.fort ;  but  tlie  iron  had 
entered  too  deep  to  be  withdrawn  by  such 
gentle  surgery.  Often  and  often,  when  ho 
found  his  efforts  fruitless,  liad  he  stolen  into 
this  unfrequented  chamber,  and  there  be- 
moaned Jiis  uselessness,  and  strove  to  hit  on 
some  plan  which  might  restore  peace  to  this 
noble  family.  Alack !  there  seemed  not  the 
slightest  hope  of  such  a  thing.  He  liked 
not  questioning  of  the  seiTants  ;  and  Adam, 
who  alone  knew  the  facts  of  the  case,  as  he 
believed  —  though  he  was  communicative 
enough  on  every  other  matter,  from  affection 
for  the  youth,  never  spoke  on  the  subject. 

At  this  time  it  was  that  the  Earl's  kins- 
man before  alluded  to,  arrived  with  his  serv- 
ing man  at  the  mansion.  He  came  late  at 
night,  and  Rertram  knew  not  of  his  visit 
till  tlie  morning.  The  unhappy  De  la  Pole, 
as  soon  as  he  had  intelligence  of  liis  kins- 
man's arrival,  rushed  out  of  the  house  in  a 
desperate  frenzy,  as  if  he  could  in  no  man- 
ner endure  the  sight  of  a  person,  who, 
whether  his  intentions  had  been  good  or 
otherwise,  had  been  so  instrumental  to  his 
long-continued,  unspeakable  misery ;  and  his 
youthful  attendant,  scarce  less  sad"  at  heart, 
retired  to  the  privacy  before  mentioned,  to 
consider  with  himself  how  he  could  best  get 
rid  of  so  unwelcome  a  |)erson.  Whilst  he 
was  so  engaged,  he  iieard  footsteps  approach 
the  door,  and  with  them  voices  he  recogniz- 
ed on  the  instant.  In  an  agony  of  dread  he 
rushed  behiiul  the  arras  ;  and  there  conceal- 
ed himself,  just  before  two  persons  entered 
the  chamber. 

"  Here  we  are  safe,"  observed  one,  as  he 
closed  the  door  after  liim.  "  We  need  fear 
no  spies.  Now,  as  f  take  it,  tlie  surest  and 
profitable.st  tiling,  is  to  put  him  out  of  the  way 
without  any  further  delaying ;  what  saycst  ? 
Shall  we  live  like  persons  of  worsjiip,  or 
starve  like  contemptible  poor  villains?" 

"  Nay,  I  am  for  no  starving,  an  it  please 
you,  master,"  replied  the  other;  "  I  can  have 
no  sort  of  objections  to  such  a  course,  see- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


241 


ing  how  many  of  the  sort  I  have  already- 
had  a  hand  in ;  but  methinks,  I  have  hither- 
to been  looked  over  somewhat.  Here  are 
you,  advanced  to  honor  chiefly  by  my  good 
help,  and  likely  to  be  put  in  possession  of 
abundant  groat  wealth  and  broad  lands,  by 
the  same  seasonable  aid,  whilst  I  am  kept 
to  no  better  state  than  a  humble,  poor  slave  : 
and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  in  such  paltry  case 
1  may  ever  chance  to  continue." 

"  By  God's  body,  that  shall  never  be !" 
exclaimed  his  master,  with  wonderful  ear- 
nestness; "  serve  me  in  this  matter,  which 
shall  be  the  last  aid  I  will  seek  at  thy  hands, 
I  will  make  thee  a  gentleman,  and  settle  on 
thoe  in  lands  or  money  at  least  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year." 

'•  That  contenteth  me  well  enough,"  an- 
f^werod  his  associate  ;  "  I  want  only  to  live 
in  some  sort  of  peace  and  comfort,  for  I  am 
getting  to  be  tired  of  the  life  I  have  led : 
but  let  us  heed  our  courses.  My  lord  hath 
store  of  powerful  friends,  and  get  we  sus- 
pected, it  must  needs  come  to  a  speedy 
hanging  with  us." 

"  Tut !  where  didst  pick  up  so  silly  a 
thought?"  cried  the  other;  "1  have  good 
reason  for  knowing,  his  death  would  be  in- 
finitely acceptable  to  persons  in  authority ; 
for  since  I  liave  been  at  courl:,  I  have  noted 
how  much  the  Poles  are  hunted  after,  be- 
cause of  their  nearness  to  the  royal  blood, 
and  though  my  Lord  Urban  is  but  a  distant 
branch,  he  is  of  the  family,  and  that  is  suf- 
ficient to  make  his  destruction  exceeding  de- 
sirable in  high  places." 

"  I  would  he  had  died  of  his  own  accord," 
exclaimed  his  companion  ;  "  I'faith,  I  won- 
der he  hath  lived  so  long  in  such  monstrous 
misery." 

"  Methinks  we  have  waited  for  his  dying 
long  enough,  of  all  conscience,"  said  his 
master ;  '•  and  as  I  am  circumstanced  at  this 
present,  his  death  is  my  only  help." 

"  How  desire  you  it  shall  be  done  ?"  ask- 
ed the  meaner  villain. 

"  There  is  nought  so  easy,"  answered  the 
other;  "he  is  doubtless  now  wandering  in 
the  neighboring  wood ;  there,  whilst  he  is 
wrapped  in  his  miserable  humor,  we  can 
steal  on  him  unseen,  and  despatch  him  with 
our  daggers,  ere  he  hath  opportunity  for  de- 
fence. This  achieved,  nothing  is  so  easy 
as  preventing  all  suspicion  falling  on  our- 
selves, and  making  it  appear  it  was  done  by 
thieves,  or  other  lewd  characters  :  then  our 
fortunes  are  made,  and  we  shall  live  plea- 
santly the  rest  of  our  days." 

"  Prithee,  let  us  about  it  at  once,  then ; 
for  I  care  not  how  soon  it  be  over,"  added 
his  companion. 

16 


The  page  at  first  marvelled  how  such  vil- 
lains as  he  knew  tliem  to  be,  got  into  the 
house,  and  feared  only  for  himself;  but 
when  he  heard  the  vile  deed  they  were  plot- 
ting, his  senses  seemed  utterly  confounded 
with  horror.  His  fear  was  now  entirely  for 
his  lord,  and  he  dreaded  every  moment  the 
violence  of  his  excitement  would  betray  him, 
and  so  he  be  prevented  from  defeating  the 
intended  villainy.  At  last,  having  suffici- 
ently matured  their  plan,  the  murderers  left 
the  chamber,  to  proceed  to  its  instant  exe- 
cution ;  and  the  page  emerged  from  his 
hiding  place,  with  infinite  terror  and  intense 
anxiousness. 

"  Haste  you  Adam  to  the  wood,  or  my 
lord  will  be  foully  murdered !"  exclaimed 
he,  distractedly,  as  he  passed  through  the 
hall,  wherein  were  several  of  the  domestics  ; 
"  to  the  wood  !"  cried  he  ;  and  stopping  not 
to  be  questioned  of  the  astonished  serving 
men,  he  bent  his  steps  as  fleetly  as  he  could 
towards  the  place  he  had  named.  Here  he 
for  some  time  continued  running  along  every 
path  where  he  had  hope  of  falling  in  with  the 
Earl,  in  a  state  of  such  alarm  for  his  lord, 
as  exceedeth  all  conceiving.  Every  minute 
lost  might  secure  to  the  murderers  the  suc- 
cess of  their  horrible  plot ;  yet  many  such 
minutes  passed  in  fruitless  hurrying  from 
one  part  of  the  wood  to  another.  Almost 
hopeless,  breathless  and  exhausted,  on  a 
sudden  turn  he  caught  sight  of  those  of 
whom  he  had  been  in  search.  At  a  dis- 
tance was  the  Earl  leaning  abstractedly 
against  a  tree,  as  was  his  wont,  his  back 
being  to  the  path,  and  his  senses  so  entirely 
given  up  to  his  melancholy  reflections,  he 
could  have  no  knowledge  that  at  the  dis- 
tance of  a  few  yards  a  man  was  creeping 
stealthily  towards  him  armed  with  a  dagger, 
closely  followed  by  another,  coming  on  with 
a  like  caution  and  a  similar  weapon ;  and 
these  latter  were  too  intent  on  their  wicked 
object  to  note  that,  in  a  few  seconds,  they 
were  being  rapidly  gained  on  by  the  quick 
light  footsteps  of  their  young  pursuer. 

Bertram,  in  a  very  agony  of  fear  he  should 
be  too  late,  seeing  how  near  the  murderers 
were  getting  to  their  intended  victim,  pres- 
sed on  with  a  noiseless  pace.  The  villain 
who  followed  his  companion  was  almost 
within  the  youth's  touch,  but  the  latter  was 
fearful  that  whilst  he  attacked  him,  the  other 
might  strike  the  fatal  blow,  and  so  render 
his  assistance  of  no  service.  At  a  bound 
he  presently  passed  the  fellow  before  him. 

"  To  your  defence,  my  lord  !"  cried  he  as 
loudly  as  he  could,  and  in  the  same  moment 
he  sent  the  foremost  villain  reeling  to  the 
earth  with  a  blow  of  his  dagger.    The  earl 


242 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


started  from  his  reverie,  gazed  amazedly  to 
find  iiis  kinsman  standing  a  few  paces  from 
him  with  a  drawn  weapon — the  kinsman's 
servant  stretched  on  the  ground,  as  thougli 
with  a  deep  wound,  and  his  page  grasping  a 
reeking  dagger,  facing  his  kinsman  with 
looks  of  terrible  determination.  But  the 
murderer  waited  not  a  moment  of  such  fac- 
ing, for  directly  he  beheld  his  servant  fall, 
and  the  youth's  bloody  weapon  before  him, 
he  fled  with  such  precipitancy  into  the  thick- 
est of  the  wood,  that  he  was  quickly  lost 
sight  of.  Scarce  had  Bertram  acquainted 
the  Lord  de  la  Pole  of  the  meaning  of  what 
he  had  witnessed  with  such  extreme  aston- 
ishment, w^hen  old  Adam  came  up  in  great 
haste  and  alarm,  accompanied  by  divers  of 
the  serving-men  well  armed.  No  pursuit 
was  made  after  the  treacherous  kinsman  : 
and  finding  that  the  wounded  man  was  not 
dead — though  apparently  no  great  way  from 
it — he  was  carried  to  the  mansion.  Surely 
no  one  could  be  so  happy  as  tlie  page,  in 
having  saved  his  lord,  and  none  so  truly 
grateful  as  was  the  carl  for  such  timely 
rescue  at  his  hands ;  but  with  this  service 
the  former  rested  not  satisfied.  It  seemed  to 
Bertram  something  more  might  be  done,  and 
to  the  surprise  of  Adam,  his  companions, 
and  their  master,  he  went  to  the  side  of 
the  couch  whereon  the  wounded  man  was 
lying,  and  took  him  kindly  by  the  hand. 
The  dying  villain  opened  his  eyes ;  but  as 
soon  as  he  beheld  the  youth's  features,  he 
started  in  a  strange  amazement. 

•'  Saul,"  said  the  page  to  him  in  an  ex- 
ceeding earnest  and  impressive  manner, 
"you  have  long  sought  my  destruction,  and 
I  never  harmed  you  by  word  or  thought. 
You  have  now  fallen  by  my  hand  ;  but  from 
no  desire  of  vengeance  for  my  own  wrongs. 
As  I  hope  for  mercy  hereafter,  I  never  wish- 
ed you  hurt,  till  to  prevent  my  lord's  murder, 
I  was  forced  to  lift  my  weapon  against  your 
life.  I  have  before  this  knocked  at  your 
heart,  and  found  you  not  so  great  a  villain  as 
you  seemed.  I  would  think  well  of  you  if 
I  could.  I  beseech  you  forget  not  that  your 
wound  is  mortal ;  and  that  but  a  brief  inter- 
val remains  to  allov/  of  your  crowning  your 
bad  life  with  an  honest  repentance.  I  im- 
plore you  to  do  it.  I  am  confident  you  can 
effect  a  great  good  by  a  free  confession  of 
certain  deeds,  whereof  there  remaineth  no 
doubt  in  my  mind  you  had  the  principal 
handling.  I  allude  to  the  Lady  Blanche.  I 
charge  you  as  you  look  for  your  soul's  com- 
fort, reveal  the  wiiolc  truth." 

At  this  the  man  fell  to  a  pitiful  lamenta- 
tion of  his  monstrous  wickedness,  and  very 
readily  confessed  that  the  countess  was  in- 


nocent of  all  that  had  been  laid  to  her 
charge,  and  that  his  master,  for  certain  de- 
signs of  his  own,  had  got  one  of  the  Lady 
Blanche's  attendants  to  represent  her  mis- 
tress, after  she  was  in  bed  and  asleep, — and 
that  he,  Saul,  was  the  cloaked  person  whc 
had  ascended  the  ladder  of  ropes,  entered  the 
chamber,  and  caressed  the  waiting  woman, 
who  was  his  leman,  and  that  this  woman 
was  afterwards  privily  made  away  with  to 
prevent  her  from  declaring  the  part  she  had 
taken  in  the  deception,  which  she  seemed  apt 
enough  to  do,  believing  it  had  caused  the 
death  of  her  mistress. 

"  God  help  me,  I  have  murdered  mine  own 
child  !"  groaned  the  unhappy  earl ;  and 
thereupon  he  fell  into  such  a  paroxysm  of 
anguish  as  was  fearful  to  look  on. 

"  My  lord !  my  lord  !  as  I  am  a  sinful 
man,  that  child  received  no  hurt,"  exclaimed 
Adam. 

"  Speak  that  again,"  shouted  his  master, 
wildly  catcliing  the  old  man  by  the  arm. — 
"  Repeat  it — assure  me  of  it,  and  I  will  bless 
thee  to  my  life's  end." 

"  An'  it  please  you,  my  lord,  it  is  as  I  have 
said,"  replied  Adam.  "  I  liked  not  the  deed, 
though  I  felt  bound  to  do  you  whatever  ser- 
vice you  required  of  me.  I  took  especial 
heed  of  the  babe  till  morning,  and  soon  as  I 
thought  'twas  fit  time,  1  rode  to  a  charitable 
lady's  some  miles  off",  and  placed  the  new- 
born child  so  conspicuously,  she  could  not 
fail  seeing  it  on  her  going  her  morning's 
walk.  I  waited  in  concealment  till  she  ven- 
tured out  of  her  dwelling,  as  I  knew  she 
was  wont  to  do  ;  and  I  saw  her  take  up 
the  child  and  carrj'  it  within  doors.  I  made 
you  believe  I  had  done  as  you  desired,  and 
having  no  doubt  of  my  lady's  guilt,  I  never 
tliought  it  necessary  to  say  the  truth." 

"  But  what  name  hath  that  place  ?"  in- 
quired his  lord  hurriedly,  and  with  a  wond- 
rous eagerness.  "  To  horse,  my  fellows  !  to 
horse  !  we  must  there  on  the  instant." 

"  The  place  was  called  Charlcote,  and  ly- 
eth  convenient  to  Stratford  on  the  Avon," 
replied  the  old  man. 

"  Look  to  the  page — by  heaven,  lie  hath 
swooned  !"  exclaimed  the  earl,  as  he  beheld 
his  faithful  attendant  fall  senseless  to  the 
ground. 

"My  lord  !"  murmured  the  djnng  man,  as 
he  raised  himself  a  little  on  the  couch,  "  let 
me  at  least  make  some  lasting  liappiness 
where  I  have  produced  such  dreadful  mise- 
ry. That  is  no  page.  That  is  Mabel,  the 
foundling.  To  escape  from  tlie  plotit  of  Sir 
Piers  Buzzard  and  myself,  then  set  on  by 
hopes  of  great  reward,  and  striving  all  we 
could,  to  get  her  into  tlie  power  of  my  Lord 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


243 


of  Leicester,  who  was  enamored  of  her,  she 
B.t  last  disguised  herself  and  got  away  from 
Charlcote,  and  hath  hither  tied.  My  lord, 
be  assured  of  it,  she  is  your  daughter,  and 
none  other." 

"  Will  my  heart-strings  crack!"  exclaimed 
the  bewildered  happy  parent,  as  he  pressed 
the  still  senseless  page  within  his  arms, 
with  such  marvellous  affection  as  none 
could  see  unmoved.  "  Help,  I  prithee, 
knaves — or  my  brain  will  turn  at  this  sight. 
Open  thy  lids,  my  child,  and  behold  that  un- 
natural fierce  father,  who  doomed  thee  to 
death ;  and  to  whom  thou  since  played  so 
loving  a  part — my  faithful  servant, — my 
brave  preserver, — my  gentle-hearted,  true 
daughter!  In  mercy  revive.  Unworthy 
though  I  am,  I  do  beseech  thee  afford  me 
the  exquisite  comfort  of  thy  full  forgiveness. 
Ha !  she  stirs  !  My  head  swims  with  excess 
of  joy.  Oh,  my  dear  sweet  noble  child,  from 
what  a  hell  of  torment  has  this  discovery  re- 
lieved me  !' 

The  feelings  of  the  poor  foundling,  so  sud- 
denly raised  to  greatness  and  honor,  passeth 
description.  She  whom  no  lowness  of  cir- 
cumstance could  render  servile,  and  that  the 
desperateness  of  danger  turned  from  maiden 
gentleness  to  most  fearless  heroic  valor,  was 
not  of  a  nature  to  meet  such  an  event  as 
hath  just  been  described,  without  her  whole 
being  experiencing  its  influence  ;  but  during 
all  the  time,  she  poured  out  her  heart's  e.\- 
quisite  affections  on  the  bosom  of  her  father, 
there  was  one  whom  she  was  longing  most 
ardently  to  join,  whose  love  could  alone 
make  perfect  the  happiness  she  was  enjoy- 
ing :  and  waiting  till  the  earl's  transports 
became  more  calm,  she  whispered  to  him  the 
words  "  my  mother  !"  which  in  truth  was  all 
she  could  at  that  moment  utter. 

"  How  shall  I  appear  before  that  most 
wronged  of  women  ?"  replied  he.  "  But 
justice  commandeth  it.  We  will  to  her  on 
the  instant."  Then  turning  to  the  astonish- 
ed domestics,  and  pointing  to  the  funeral 
hangings  that  still  covered  the  walls,  he  add- 
ed, "  Pluck  down  that  mockery  of  woe. — 
Your  mistress,  for  whom  you  have  so  long 
mourned,  is  still  alive.  Follow  me,  and  you 
shall  have  sight  of  her."  Thereupon,  hold- 
ing of  his  daughter  by  the  hand,  he  led  the 
way  to  the  library,  followed  by  his  wonder- 
ing household  ;  and  throwing  open  the  se- 
cret door  in  the  old  book-case,  they  proceed- 
ed through  the  passage  into  the  adjoining 
chamber,  where,  to  their  equal  marvel  and 
delight,  they  beheld  their  long  lost  lady. — 
Doubtless,  she  was  the  most  amazed  of  all 
to  see  her  husband  coming  to  her  with  so 
great  a  company  ;  but  how  much  more  was 


she  astonislied  to  behold  him  kneel  at  her 
feet,  and  declare  how  deeply  he  had  wronged 
her,  then  proceed  to  state  he  cause  of  her 
sufferings,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
discovered  her  innocence  :  and,  in  the  page 
whose  gentleness  had  so  won  on  her  aftecd- 
ons,  gave  her  back  the  child  she  had  ever 
since  its  birth  believed  had  suffered  a  cruel 
death.  Mother  and  daughter  in  a  moment 
wore  so  fondly  clasped,  and  there  v^as  such 
a  prodigal  sweet  show  of  smiles,  of  tears, 
of  caresses,  and  the  like  exquisite  affection- 
ateness,  as  did  all  hearts  good  to  look  on. 

"  Blanche  !"  exclaimed  the  suppliant,  "  I 
know  not  what  amends  to  malce  you  for  the 
unjust  treatment  you  have  had  of  me.  As 
for  myself,  I  have  had  such  punishment  of 
it  already,  nothing  I  might  be  sentenced  to 
could  come  in  any  way  nigh.  Truly  never 
was  punishment  so  merited.  For  a  phantom 
of  mine  own  creating — that  fantastic  idol, 
reputation,  I  hurried  myself  into  deeds  that 
were  far  moi'e  completely  its  enemies  than 
either  the  deed  I  suspected,  or  the  know- 
ledge of  it  I  so  sought  to  prevent.  My  guilt 
is  none  the  less  because  things  have  turned 
out  as  they  are.  I  might  have  been  the 
murderer  of  my  own  child — I  have  been  a 
merciless  tyrant  to  a  faithful  loving  wife. — 
Your  humiliation  I  kept  secret ;  but  I  would 
have  my  own  a  spectacle  for  the  whole 
world.  Thus  publicly  I  crave  your  pardon. 
Banish  me  from  your  presence — do  with  me 
according  to  my  desert ;  but  to  my  last  hour 
1  will  hold  your  name  in  my  heart  as  the 
gentlest,  lovingest,  and  truest  wife  that  ever 
suffered  of  an  unworthy  husband." 

"  My  lord  !"  replied  the  countess,  as  she 
raised  him  very  fondly  to  her  embrace,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  deepest  love  in  every 
look,  "  I  beseech  you  no  more  of  this.  You 
have  been  the  dupe  of  your  false  treacherous 
kinsman,  who  poisoned  your  ear  with  vil- 
lainous wicked  perjuries,  for  his  own  base 
ends.  I  have  suffered  scarce  any  thing.  I 
had  always  with  me  the  conviction  that  your 
noble  mind  had  been  abused  in  some  such 
manner  ;  and  that  the  day  would  come  when 
my  innocence  would  be  proved  to  you : — 
therefore  I  waited  in  patience  till  such  happy 
time  should  arrive.  Although  my  return  to 
your  affections  I  expected,  never  expected  I 
sight  of  my  dear  child  again  :  methinks  the 
happiness  of  that  should  counterbalance  all 
offences.  My  lord,  I  ever  was  your  fond 
obedient  wife  ;  this  nothing  can  change. — 
And  now,  as  there  can  be  no  hindrance  to 
my  leaving  of  this  my  prison, — seeing  you 
have  yourself  made  it  known  and  are  satis- 
fied of  my  perfect  loyalty — if  it  so  please 
you,  I  will  live  differently  ;  but  let  rae  live 


244 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


as  I  may,  if  I  exist  not  for  the  securinir  of 
your  honor  and  happiness,  be  assured,  in 
mine  own  opinion,  I  shall  hve  exceeding  ill."' 

Shortly  after,  this  fair  model  of  womanly 
patience  and  every  other  womanly  virtue, 
departed  out  of  that  chamber,  supported  on 
one  side  by  a  daughter,  in  all  respects  wor- 
thy of  such  a  mother  ;  and  on  the  other  by 
a  husband,  saving  some  faults,  worthy  of 
such  a  wife — amid  the  honest  boisterous  joy 
of  every  member  of  the  household.  Mabel 
blessed  the  hour  she  thought  of  disguising 
herself  in  a  left-off  suit  of  young  Lucy's, 
and  friendless,  penniless,  and  scarce  able  to 
proceed  from  long  illness,  trusted  herself  to 
the  uncertain  chance  of  lortune  :  but  more 
fervently  she  blessed  that  exhaustion  which 
led  to  her  becoming  an  inmate  Avith  persons 
who,  after  exciting  her  powerfullest  sympa- 
thies for  months,  till  she  loved  thoui  more 
dearly  than  her  life,  proved  to  be  those  who 
by  nearness  of  blood  and  excellence  of  na- 
ture, were  best  entitled  to  hold  such  place  in 
her  affections.  Here  methinks  'tis  but  pro- 
per to  add,  that  despite  of  her  many  anxie- 
ties and  cares,  she  had  oft  thought  and  with 
exceeding  gratefulness,  of  that  honorable 
and  gallant  young  gentleman,  Sir  Valentine, 
who  had  loved  her,  and  desired  to  make  her 
his  wife,  when  she  Avas  a  j)oor,  despLsed 
foundling.  But  we  must  now  leave  her  to 
the  care  of  her  good  parents,  whilst  taking 
to  matter  more  necessary  here  to  be  handled. 

Sir  Piers  Buzzard  jled  from  the  scene  of 
his  intended  murder,  cursing  of  his  unlucky 
stars  with  all  the  fervor  of  a  baffled  villain, 
and  scarce  knowing  where  to  go  or  what  to 
be  about.  Truly  he  would  have  been  glad 
enough  now  to  have  remained  Master  Buz- 
zard, royst&ring  with  Sir  Nathaniel  the  cu- 
rate, Stripes  the  schoolmaster,  and  others 
of  his  boon  companions  he  was  wont  to  ca- 
rouse with  at  Stratford,  before  ho  set  upon 
plotting  against  his  kinsman's  happiness, 
that  it  might  cause  him  to  die  wit'iout  issue, 
and  po  he  profit  by  it — or  even  the  life  he 
led  immediately  afterwards  when  he  gam- 
bled away  his  patrimony  at  the  dice,  and  so 
being  ready  for  any  sort  of  service  to  retrieve 
his  fortune,  readily  became  an  agent  for  my 
lord  of  Leicester,  who  never  lacked  such  ser- 
vants, or  proper  employment  to  set  them  up- 
on. At  last,  he  seemed  in  so  desperate  a 
strait,  he  thought  it  might  have  been  better 
had  he  swallowed  the  poison  his  noble  mas- 
ter had  prepared  as  a  reward  for  his  ser- 
vices of  a  like  sort  upon  othens,  the  earl's 
enemies;  for  he  had  become  a  disgraced 
man, his  character  was  known,  and  he  knew 
not  where  to  look  for  even  so  much  as  a  bare 
Bubsistence. 


In  a  mood  of  extreme  desperation  he  catne 
to  a  narrow  causeway  that  led  close  by  the 
mouth  of  a  pit, — once  worked  for  coal,  but 
now  tilled  with  water, — of  a  famous  depth 
and  vastness.  He  saw  an  old  man  ap- 
proaching him,  nearly  bent  double,  as  if  by 
infirmity,  and  advancing  slowly  with  the  aid 
of  his  staff.  Wiien  they  came  to  within  a 
few  yards  of  each  other,  the  old  man  looked 
up.  In  an  instant  such  a  change  was  ap- 
parent in  him  as  surely  had  never  before 
been  v/itnessed.  All  traces  of  age  or  weak- 
ness in  him  vanished  as  if  they  had  never 
been.  He  stood  up  firm  and  erect,  with  eyes 
flashing  and  a  look  as  fierce  as  human  aspect 
could  express. 

"  Mine  enemy !"  muttered  he  at  last,  be- 
tween his  teeth,  as  his  staff  fell  from  his 
hand,  and  his  sword  leaped  from  its  scab- 
bard. 

'•  John  a  Combe,  get  thee  hence  quietly,  or 
thou  shalt  dearly  rue  it!"  said  Sir  Piers, 
drawing  his  weapon  as  quickly  as  he  could. 

'•Hence,  sayest !"  shouted  the  usurer  ; — 
'■  have  I  lived  for  this  hour  to  go  at  thy  bid- 
ding ?  Expect  not  so  idle  a  thing.  I  have 
an  account  to  settle  with  thee  of  long  stand- 
ing •, — intolerable  foul  wrongs  cry  for  re- 
venge— years  of  hopeless  misery  demarwl 
recompense.  The  time  hath  come  at  last. 
Prepare  !  Hell  yawns  for  thee,  thou  match- 
less damnable  villain !" 

At  this  he  leaped  towards  the  man  who 
had  done  him  such  unspeakable  injury,  and 
commenced  with  him  most  desperate  battle. 
Sir  Piers  knew  his  enemy's  cunning  of  fence 
of  old,  and  took  to  his  defence  with  such 
caution  as  the  fear  of  death  generally  gives. 
He  had  hoped  tiiat  age  had  weakened  the 
usurer's  arm,  or  loss  of  practice  had  lessen- 
ed his  skill ;  but  never  was  ho]ie  so  vain.— 
The  old  man,  as  he  looked  a  moment  since, 
plied  his  weapon  with  such  briskness  the 
eye  could  not  follow  its  rapid  movement : — 
and  though  his  opponent  was  in  the  full  vi- 
gor of  manhood,  and  had  of  late  years  been 
m  the  constant  practice  of  his  weapon,  John 
a  Combe  beat  his  defence  aside  as  though 
he  had  been  but  a  weak  unskilful  youth. — 
There  seemed  a  supernatural  fury  in  his  at- 
tack. He  breathed  hard  through  his  clenched 
teeth  ;  and  gazed  on  his  enemy  so  wild  dead- 
ly a  glance,  it  might  of  itself  have  appalled 
the  stoutest  heart. 

Sir  Piers,  for  all  he  strove  his  best,  pre- 
sently found  himself  wounded.  At  the 
sight  of  his  trickling  blood  the  usurer  set  up 
a  scream  of  exultation  that  setteth  all  de- 
scription at  defiance,  and  fell  on  his  opponent 
with  a  fiercer  hostility  than  ever,  ever  and 
anon  reminding  him  of  the  treacherous  foul 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


245 


villainy  he  had  perpetrated  against  his  peace. 
Thrust  followed  thrust,  and  all  craft  in  par- 
ryingwasof  no  help  in  avoiding  blows  so  hot- 
ly put.  One  wound  soon  succeeded  another, 
till  the  efforts  of  the  knight  for  his  own  de- 
fence, from  loss  of  blood  and  despair  of  heart, 
became  more  like  those  of  a  reeling  drunk- 
ard than  of  aught  else.  Still  the  relentless 
weapon  of  his  enemy  pressed  upon  him — 
pierced  his  flesh,  and  drew  such  streams 
from  his  veins  that  liis  path  became  slipj)ery 
with  his  own  gore.  In  the  end,  his  rapier 
fell  from  his  relaxed  grasp,  and  tottering 
with  a  faint  supplication  for  mercy,  he  lost 
his  footing,  and  fell  with  many  wounds  to  the 
ground. 

"  Mercy  !"  shouted  John  a  Combe.  "  By 
God's  passion  thou  shalt  have  the  same  mer- 
cy thou  didst  show  to  me." 

"  Spare  my  life  !  I  beseech  thee  kill  me 
not !  good  John  a  Combe  !  worthy  Sir !" — 

"Away  with  thee,  thou  abhorred  and  in- 
famous villain  !"  cried  the  usurer;  and  de- 
spite of  the  other's  struggles  and  abject 
pleadings,  he  took  him  in  his  grasp  as  though 
he  were  a  child,  and  with  a  giant's  strength 
hurled  him  into  the  pit.  There  chanced  to 
grow  just  below  the  brink  of  this  fearful 
chasm,  a  bush,  a  branch  of  which  in  his  de- 
scent the  knight  caught  hold  of,  and  there 
he  hung  clinging  to  it  with  so  powerful  a 
hold,  as  if  the  terribleness  of  his  danger  had 
given  him  new  strength.  Below  him  lay 
the  unfathomable  de[)ths  of  the  mine,  cloth- 
ed with  a  thousand  horrors,  and  nought  pre- 
vented his  being  dashed  to  pieces  against  its 
rugged  sides,  and  then  swallowed  in  its 
pitchy  waters,  save  the  twig  by  which  he 
swung  above  them.  In  this  fearful  situa- 
tion he  made  the  abyss  echo  with  his  pierc- 
ing screams  as  he  clung  convulsively  to  his 
hold.  John  a  Combe  stretched  himself  on 
the  ground,  with  his  head  leaning  over  the 
pit's  mouth,  and  fierce  as  he  was  against  his 
enemy,  gazed  in  horror  at  beholding  the  ter- 
rible spectacle  that  met  his  eyes.  Sir  Piers 
looked  up  v.'ith  an  aspect  so  marked  with 
terror  and  agony,  that  it  savored  more  of  a 
tortured  demon  than  of  a  human  being,  his 
countenance  was  black  and  distorted  fright- 
fully, his  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets — 
and  he  grasped  the  branch  of  the  bush  with 
such  terrible  force,  that  the  blood  oozed  out 
of  his  linger  nails.  But  the  struggle,  though 
horribly  violent,  was  exceeding  brief.  It  was 
manifest  he  was  monstrous  loath  to  die,  or  he 
would  not  so  desperately  have  sought  to 
prolong  his  existence. 

Weak  as  he  must  have  been  from  his  re- 
cent wounds,  and  certain  as  was  his  destruc- 


moment  in  a  manner  awful  to  see  or  hear. 
As  if  to  add  to  the  extremeness  of  his  de- 
spair, he  felt  the  bough  by  which  he  hung 
giving  way  from  the  fierceness  of  his  tugs. 
He  saw  it  crack  and  peal — fibre  after  fibre 
snapt — and  the  tough  green  substance  of 
the  branch  was  gradually  breaking  away. 
John  a  Combe,  unable  to  bear  so  dreadful  a 
scene,  stretched  out  his  arm  with  the  hope 
of  saving  his  enemy,  but  at  that  moment  the 
branch  was  severed  from  the  bush,  and  he 
beheld  the  screaming  villain  turning  over 
and  over  as  he  fell  into  the  yav/ning  chasm, 
till  a  loud  splash,  followed  by  a  death-like  si- 
ence,  told  him  that  all  was  at  an  end. 

And  in  the  manner  related  in  this  pre- 
sent chapter,  perished  Master  Buzzard  and 
his  man  Saul — a  pair  of  those  pests  of  so- 
ciety which  occasionally  are  allowed  to  run 
their  career  of  crime — to  do  their  vile  mis- 
chiefs unchecked — nay,  in  divers  instances 
to  obtain  honor  and  profit  by  effecting  the 
misery  of  the  noble  and  the  good  ;  and  then, 
when  they  fancy  themselves  to  be  most  se- 
cure in  their  villainy,  are  overtaken  and 
overthrown,  and  by  shameful  and  terrible 
ends,  become  monuments  of  avenging  jus- 
tice. And  may  all  such  manner  of  men 
meet  such  fit  reward,  till  the  world  becometh 
to  be  purged  of  their  baseness,  and  the  ever- 
lasting heart  of  nature  rejoice  in  the  posses- 
sion of  a  generous,  loving,  and  honorable 
humanity. 

John  a  Combe  sheathed  his  own  weapon, 
and  flung  that  of  his  slain  enemy  into  the 
pit  ;  then  kicking  of  his  staff  on  one  side  as 
a  thing  no  longer  necessary,  he  went  his 
way.  Truly,  there  was  little  in  him  of  the 
infirm  old  man  now,  for  he  walked  as  proud 
and  erect  as  he  had  done  in  his  best  days. 
It  seemed,  that  in  the  fulfillment  of  tl-.e  ven- 
geance he  had  so  long  and  vainly  sought,  he 
had  cast  from  him  the  load  of  suffering  that 
had  bowed  him  to  tiie  earth.  The  sense  of 
intolerable  wrong  that  had  effected  in  him 
so  fearful  an  alteration,  appeared  to  have 
left  him  the  instant  his  idea  of  justice  had 
been  accomplished,  and  with  it  had  departed 
forever  every  sign  of  the  change  it  liad  pro- 
duced. His  miseries  had  died  with  the 
cause  of  them,  and  his  truly  benevolent  na- 
ture, that  no  wrong  or  suffering,  however 
monstrous,  could  affect  to  any  great  extent, 
now  returned  to  all  its  natural,  healthy,  and 
generous  influence. 

It  must  not  be  imagined,  that  it  is  in  any 
way  unnatural  for  a  gentle-hearted  liberal- 
minded  man,  as  was  Master  Combe  in  his 
early  manhood,  to  become  so  fierce  and  un- 
relenting as  hath  been  shown  ;  for  it  hath 
ever  been  found  that  such  ardent  trusting 


246 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


dispositions  do  readily  leap  to  violent  ex- 
tremes, at  the  sudden  discovering  of  tiieir 
happiness  destroyed  by  such  villainous 
means  as  w^ere  used  by  Master  Buzzard.  A 
rankling  wound  giveth  sore  pains,  and 
wounds  that  come  of  over-conlidence  in 
honorable  appearances,  and  deepest  truest 
love  outraged  and  put  to  shame,  rankle  most, 
and  are  the  longest  healing.  This  breedeth 
and  keepeth  alive  a  sense  of  wrong,  which 
feeds  on  hopes  of  fitting  vengeance,  till  long- 
suffering  givetli  to  it  so  great  a  strengtli  as 
to  make  it  the  moving  impulse  of  existence. 
Methinks  it  followctli  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence, that  one  so  fiercely  used  should  be 
no  less  fierce  in  his  resentment. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Thus  far,  with  rough,  and  all  unable  pen 

Our  bending  author  hath  jjursued  the  story  ; 
In  a  little  room  confming  mighty  men, 

Mangling  by  starts  the   full  course  of  their 
glory. 
Small  time,  but  in  that  small,  most  greatly  lived. 
This  iiitar  of  England. 

Shakspeare. 
Why  do  you  dwell  so  long  in  clouds, 

And  smother  your  best  graces. 
'Tis  time  to  cast  away  those  shrouds. 
And  clear  your  manly  faces. 

Shirley. 
Now  all  is  done  ;  bring  honte  the  bride  again. 

Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory  ; 
Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gain. 

With  joyance  bring  her  and  with  jollity. 

Never  had  man  more  joyous  day  than  this. 

Whom  Heaven  would  heap  with  bliss. 

Spenser. 

"I  PRAY  you  tell  me,  Master  Spenser, 
your  honest  opinion  of  this  my  play,"  said 
William  Shakspeare  to  his  friend,  after  as 
it  seemed,  reading  a  manuscript  he  had  be- 
fore him,  as  they  sat  trjgcther  in  his  lodging. 

"  Truly,  I  scarce  know  what  to  say  of  it. 
Master  Shakspeare,"  replied  the  other,  with 
a  look  of  as  sincere  delight  as  ever  was  seen. 
"  Nothing  I  have  met  with  cither  among 
ancient  or  modern  writers  comcth  at  all  nigh 
to  it  for  truth,  beauty,  or  sv.-eetness.  De- 
spite the  sad  unhappy  deaths  of  these  ex- 
quisite young  lovers,  Romeo  and  Juliet  will 
live  as  long  as  the  language,  out  of  which 
you  have  carved  their  imperishable  story, 
shall  endure." 

"  Indeed,  1  am  infinitely  pleased  to  hear 
you  say  so,"  observed  his  companion  ;  "'your 
acknowledged  admirable  taste  and  judgment 
making  you  the  (litest  person  whose  opinion 


should  have  greatest  weight  with  me,  and 
your  excellent  friendliness  creating  in  me  a 
confidence  you  would  give  me  your  advice, 
saw  you  anything  am.iss  in  it." 

"  Believe  me,  it  hath  such  ahundance  of 
merit  as  to  put  all  faultiness  out  of  the 
case,"  answered  Edmund  Spenser  ;  "  I  am 
enraptured  beyond  expression  that  I  left  Ire- 
land at  this  time.  I  would  not  have  missed 
the  hearing  of  so  choice  a  performance  for 
a  king's  ransom.  Oh,  I  would  the  noble  Sir 
Philip  Sydney  were  living  at  this  time,  what 
extreme  pleasure  he  would  have  taken  in  its 
manifold  rare  beauties  !  But  I  will  shortly 
find  means  of  making  you  known  to  a  gal- 
lant gentleman  of  my  acquaintance,  who  I 
take  to  be  the  only  man  in  the  world  capa- 
ble of  filling  the  void  left  by  my  glorious  de- 
parted friend." 

"  Be  assured,  I  should  be  right  glad  of  his 
countenance,  if  he  is  so  worthy  a  person," 
observed  the  young  player. 

"  He  is  no  other  than  Sir  Walter  Raleigh," 
replied  ins  celebrated  brother  poet.  "  As 
ripe  a  scholar  as  was  Sir  Philip,  and  no  less 
perfect  a  gentleman.  But  how  came  you  to 
hit  on  so  truly  charming  a  subject,  and  work 
it  out  with  such  inimitable  delicacy  ?  Have 
you  writ  more  such  plays  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  answered  William 
Shakspeare  ;  "  for  sometime  past,  I  have 
tajccn  to  the  altering  of  plays  of  divers  play- 
writers,  who,  finding  any  of  their  perfor- 
mances in  which  I  had  a  hand,  went  better 
with  the  public  than  tliose  I  had  not  meddled 
with,  took  care  to  employ  me  sufficiently. 
With  some  I  wrote  conjointly,  and  the  plays 
of  others  I  amended  ;  but  all  that  I  gained  by 
so  doing,  the  affair  having  in  every  case  been 
kept  secret  betwixt  us — was  the  denial  1 
had  done  them  any  such  service,  with  no 
lack  of  slander  behind  my  back.  This  put 
me  on  attempting  something  on  mine  own 
account ;  nevertheless,  in  consequence  of 
the  intrigues  and  enmity  of  my  rivals,  as  I 
believe,  though  I  have  already  produced 
more  than  one  play  of  my  own  writing 
solely,  I  have  not  met  that  success  which 
would  be  most  to  my  liking.  Certes,  none 
of  my  performnnces  have  failed  ;  nor  have 
tiiey  been  as  yet  in  any  notable  admiration 
of  the  public." 

"  I  would  wager  my  life,  that  is  the  ciTect 
of  sheer  malice  of  those  paltry  play-writers," 
observed  his  companion,  \\'"armly. 

"  So  I  have  been  told,"  answered  the 
other  ;  "  I  have  therefore  been  advised  to 
act  with  some  cautiousness.  Meeting  with 
the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  I  saw  its  ca- 
pability for  tlie  stage,  and  have  written  it  as 
you  see.     This  I  mean  to  have  read  pri- 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


241 


vately  to  the  company,  every  one  of  whom, 
save  the  manag-cr,  I  believe  to  be  my  true 
friends  ;  and  though  old  Burbage  is  chur- 
lish, I  do  not  think  him  capable  of  caballing 
against  me  with  my  rivals.  Afterwards  it 
shall  be  got  up  with  a  groat  secresy  as  to 
the  author,  and  performed  without  their 
having  suspicion  of  its  relationship  to  one 
they  manifestly  mislike  so  hugely.  I  am 
apt  to  think,  from  what  you  have  so  hand- 
somely expressed,  it  cannot  fail  of  succeed- 
ing ;  and  if  I  chance  to  meet  such  good  for- 
tune, methinks  I  shall  have  famous  cause 
for  laughing  at  the  whole  herd  of  play- writers 
from  that  time  forth." 

"  Ay,  that  shall  you,  Master  Shakspeare," 
said  [lis  gentle  friend  ;  '•  and,  believe  me,  I 
am  most  earnest  to  aid  you  with  what  help 
I  may,  that  they  shall  afford  a  sufficiency  of 
sport.  I  will  now  take  m,y  leave  of  you 
for  a  brief  space,  having  had  such  delectable 
conviction  of  your  resources  in  expressing 
the  beautiful  and  the  true,  that  all  my  life 
long  I  shall  have  but  one  longing,  which 
must  needs  bo,  that  in  after  ages,  the 
name  of  Edmund  Spenser  may  be  founo  in 
honorable  companionship  with  that  of  his 
estimable  rare  brother  in  love,  and  associate 
in  letters,  William  Shakspeare." 

To  this  handsome  speech,  the  yonng 
player  replied  in  a  like  admirable  manner, 
and  these  bright  planets  of  their  age  sepa- 
rated in  perfect  mutual  appreciation  of  each 
other's  unrivalled  genius.  Nor  could  this 
be  in  any  way  extraordinary,  for  in  many 
things  were  they  marvellously  alike.  Eacli 
was  possessed  of  that  greatness  of  soul, 
which  payeth  ready  homage  to  excellence 
wherever  it  may  be  found.  The  mind  of 
either  was  embued  with  that  lofty  spirit, 
which  emanates  from  the  imiversal  wisdom  ; 
and  in  their  several  hearts  were  those  feel- 
ings of  gentleness,  of  purity,  of  sweetness — 
of  love  of  truth,  and  sympathy  for  v/rong, 
which  can  exist  only  in  such  as  are  selected 
by  nature  to  be  the  cliief  priests  of  her  im- 
macular  temple.  William  Shakspeare  had 
more  studied  the  humors  of  men — Kdmund 
Spenser  had  acquired  greater  acquaintance 
into  the  learning  of  books.  The  latter 
sought  to  purify  mankind  of  unmanly  im- 
pulses, by  bringing  before  their  eyes  the 
noblest  achievements  of  the  most  romantic 
chivalry ;  but  the  other  was  disposed  to  show 
the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  actual  world 
— the  virtues,  merits,  vices  and  follies  that 
do  commonly  make  for  themselves  liomes,  in 
very  age  and  condition — and,  embodying 
in  their  portraiture  so  palpable  and  imperish- 
able a  philosophy,  that  they  shall  atford  most 


estimable  teaching  unto  all  persons,  unto  the 
uttermost  end  of  time. 

I  pass  over  the  effect  produced  on  his 
brother  players,  by  the  reading  of  that  honey- 
sweet  play  ;  suffice  it,  that  every  one  took 
to  the  studying  of  his  part  with  such  boun- 
tiful good  will  as  he  had  never  known  be- 
fore. Even  the  elder  Burbage  hoped  great 
things  of  it ;  and,  as  some  symptom  his 
churlishness  was  giving  way  before  an  in- 
creasing knowledge  of  liis  young  associate's 
manifold  excellences  of  heart  and  mind,  he 
insisted  on  drawing  him  out  of  his  obscurity 
as  a  player,  and  pressed  him  to  take  the 
principal  part  in  his  new  play.  William 
Shakspeare  gladly  accepted  tliis  offer ;  for 
it  was  a  character  written  after  his  own 
heart,  and,  to  a  great  extent,  the  expression 
of  his  own  feelings  The  full  strength  of 
the  company  was  employed  in  the  perform- 
ance ;  and  every  precaution  taken  to  keep 
the  authorship  a  secret. 

The  young  player  was  in  such  excitement 
during  the  whole  time  it  was  in  rehearsal, 
as  he  had  never  known  on  any  other  occa- 
sion. He  knew  that  the  life  of  hardship  he 
had  led  for  some  years  past,  could  only  have 
an  ending  tiirough  the  complete  success  of 
this,  his  recent  and  favorite  production — he 
saw  that  there  was  no  way  to  attain  the 
greatness  his  ambition  aimed  at,  save  by 
giving  to  the  world  something  of  his  which 
should  be  stamped  by  the  seal  of  universal  ap- 
proval ;  and  he  felt  that  a  failure  was  likely 
to  give  so  rude  a  check  to  his  proud  aspir- 
ings, that  it  would  go  nigh  to  deprive  him 
of  that  confidence  in  his  own  resources, 
without  wliich  no  truly  great  work  can  be 
produced.  In  brief,  he  was  well  aware  that 
his  every  hope  depended  on  the  manner  in 
which  his  Romeo  and  Juliet  should  be  re- 
ceived of  the  audience.  He  studied  his  part 
very  carefully,  and  not  without  the  belief, 
an  imperfect  personation  of  the  lover  might 
mar  the  whole  performance  ;  but  the  praises 
he  received  at  the  rehearsals  assured  him, 
and  the  more  perl'oct  he  got,  the  more  com- 
pletely he  abandoned  himself  to  the  true 
spirit  of  the  character. 

The  day  of  the  tirst  representation  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet  arrived.  In  a  state  of 
monstrous  anxiousness  he  was  leaving  his 
lodgings  to  proceed  to  the  playhouse,  when, 
who  should  he  meet  but  his  old  tried  friend 
John  a  Combe.  Not  a  sign  had  he  of  the 
miserable  crabbed  usurer ;  but  in  dress  and 
manner  looked  to  be  as  true  a  gentleman  as 
might  be  met  with  any  vv-here.  He  had  come 
expressly  to  look  after  the  young  player, 
believing  he  was  not  advancing  his  fortunes 


248 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


so  rapidly  as  he  desired.  After  most  hearty 
greeting,  the  two  bent  their  steps  towards 
tlie  Globe,  at  the  Bankside,  Master  Combe 
relating  all  the  news  at  Stratford,  his  own 
recent  adventures,  and  the  state  in  which  he 
had  left  his  companion's  wife  and  children, 
parents  and  friends, — whereof  the  greater 
portion  was  exceeding  comfortable  to  the 
hearer ;  and  William  Shakspeare  in  his  turn 
acquainting  the  other  with  all  he  had  been 
about  of  late,  and  the  to  him,  important  ex- 
periment he  was  now  on  the  eve  of  trying ; 
whereupon  John  a  Combo  swore  very  lustily 
he  would  not  take  bit  or  sup  till  this  same 
play  he  had  seen,  and  so  encouraged  the 
young  player  v^'ith  his  prophecies  and  praises, 
that  he  arrived  at  the  playhouse  in  as  mar- 
vellous pleasant  content  as  though  success 
was  certain. 

When  he  entered  upon  the  stage,  a  scene 
disclosed  itself,  which  more  than  any  other 
thing  was  like  to  till  him  with  a  proper  en- 
couragement. As  far  as  his  experience 
went,  the  audience  used  to  be  chiefly  com- 
posed of  idlers  of  different  classes,  with  oc- 
casionally some  person  of  note  and  credit 
drawn  to  the  place  by  curiosity.  The  play- 
house was  rarely  full  in  any  part ;  for  the 
sports  of  the  bear-garden  seemed  much  more 
approved  of  those  persons  of  chiefest  fashion 
and  influence,  who  were  wont  to  draw  crowds 
after  the.ni  v/herever  thej'^  go —  but  now, 
when  his  eye  fell  upon  the  space  where  the 
groundlings  stand,  it  met  a  complete  den  of 
faces,  crammed  to  very  suffocation.  The 
rooms  above  were  filled  with  so  brilliant  a 
company  as  he  had  never  seen  before,  com- 
posed principally  of  the  noblest  ladies  and 
gallants  of  the  court — and  up  to  the  topmost 
scaffold,  every  place  was  as  full  of  specta- 
tors as  close  pressing  could  make  it.  This 
was  in  a  great  measure  the  result  of  the 
friendly  exertions  of  the  gentle  Edmund 
Spenser,  who  so  moved  his  friend  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh — then  the  Queen's  especial  favorite 
— with  the  infinite  merits  of  the  new  play, 
and  the  surpassing  geinus  of  its  author,  that 
he  presently  took  in  its  success  such  interest 
as  though  it  had  been  his  own,  and  prevailed 
on  all  his  acquaintances  to  accompany  him 
to  witness  its  representation.  Where  the 
Queen's  favorite  went  there  hurried,  of 
course,  the  courtiers  ;  and  where  the  court 
came,  all  persons  of  fashion  were  sure  to 
follow — and  where  fashion  appeared,  all  who 
were  desirous  of  some  claim  to  respectability, 
were  rigiit  eager  to  make  themselves  of  the 
party.  It  followeth  from  these  premises, 
that  Romeo  and  Juliet  was  like  to  have  as 
fair  and  full  an  audience  as  plavhouse  ever 
held. 


The  young  player  could  not  help  seeing, 
among  the  most  prominent  of  the  ground- 
lings, Greene,  Marlowe,  Lodge  and  their 
companions,  seemingly  in  a  monstrous  curi- 
ousness  to  see  a  play  that  none  could  name 
the  author  of.  He  saw  these  his  envious 
rivals,  of  whose  readiness  to  work  him  injury 
he  had  had  sufficient  experience ;  but  his 
confidence  gained  by  the  sight  of  them. 
With  such  an  audience  before  him,  he  felt 
that  nothing  was  to  be  feared  ;  and  he  en- 
tered intotlie  playing  of  his  part  with  a  spirit 
which  had  never  till  then  been  seen  upon  the 
stage.  It  is  scarce  possible  any  could  have 
been  so  fit  to  have  personated  the  passionate 
lover,  as  he  who  drew  him  in  such  imperish- 
able rosy  coloring.  William  Shakspeare 
was  possessed  of  all  the  graces  of  early 
manhood,  an  intellectual  handsome  counte- 
nance, that  could  take  on  itself  the  most  elo- 
quent enamored  expression  with  exceeding 
readiness,  and  a  figure,  which  for  manly 
symmetry  of  limb  and  gi-aceful  motion  in 
exercise,  was  not  to  be  excelled  search 
where  you  would;  added  to  which,  his  voice 
was  so  rich,  mellow,  and  sweet,  and  he  de- 
livered the  exquisite  poetry  of  liis  sentences 
with  such  ravishing  expression,  that  with 
music  so  delicate  and  new,  no  ear  had  hith- 
erto held  acquaintance. 

The  young  player  soon  forgot  audience, 
rivals,  and  all  other  present  matters,  in  the 
intensity  with  which  he  entered  into  the 
feelings  he  was  expected  to  feign.  Now  it 
seemed  he  had  before  him  the  gentle  fair 
foundling,  whose  exquisite  beauty  had  won 
the  secret  adoration  of  his  boyhood — anon, 
the  yeoman's  blooming  daughter  appeared 
in  the  most  seductive  charms  of  loving 
womanhood,  to  rouse  in  him  the  uncontrol- 
lable passionate  impulses  of  his  youth — and, 
lastly,  the  trusting,  self-denying,  noble-heart- 
ed Mistress  D'Avenant,  enriched  with  those 
sterling  gifts  of  mind  that  afford  a  woman 
her  truest  title  to  divinity,  seemed  ready  to 
pour  out  the  treasures  of  her  bountiful  sweet 
affections,  as  if  to  call  on  him  to  meet  her 
marvellous  bounty  by  an  immediate  out- 
pouring of  every  thouglit,  feeling,  hope  and 
sentiment,  that  existed  in  his  nature,  as  the 
proper  inheritance  of  manhood.  With  such 
deep  moving  stimuli,  his  exertions  may  in 
some  measure  be  iuiagincd.  As  for  the 
effects  they  produced,  it  looked  as  if  every 
spectator  was  spell-bound.  One  would  be 
seen  in  the  pauses  of  the  playing,  gazing  on 
another  with  such  strange  delight  and  mar- 
velling as  he  could  not  find  words  to  express. 
All  the  females  from  the  noblest  to  the  hum- 
blest, were  so  stirred  by  the  thrilling  lan- 
guage and  the   passionate  manner  of  the 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


249 


young  lover,  that  tlieir  very  hearts  were 
bound  up  in  the  story,  and  ere  he  had  half 
played  his  part  he  had  both  old  and  young  at 
his  devotion.  Such  unanimous  hearty  plaud- 
its had  never  before  resounded  in  a  play- 
house ;  but  proud  as  he  felt  at  them,  he  was 
not  a  whit  less  pleased  at  the  honest  prodi- 
gal pleasure  of  his  old  schoolfellows  and 
brother  players,  with  his  worthy  friend  John 
a  Combe,  who  every  time  he  came  oft'  the 
stage,  rivalled  each  other  in  their  commen- 
dations, and  sent  him  on  again  with  fresh 
assurances  and  renewed  happy  spirits. 

In  brief,  the  whole  performance  was  a 
triumph  from  the  commencement;  and  so 
brilliant  a  one,  perchance  no  player  or  play- 
writer  had  ever  enjoyed.  His  envious  rivals 
were  forced  into  the  expression  of  the  gen- 
eral voice  ;  doubtless  much  against  tlieir 
several  wills,  but  as  they  believed  his  share 
in  the  popular  approbation  proceeded  solely 
from  his  skill  in  playing,  they  beheld  not  in 
■  t  any  particular  injury  to  themselves.  As 
for  the  play,  never  were  men  put  in  so 
strange  a  state  by  one.  They  saw  how  vain 
must  be  any  effort  of  tl  icirs  to  mar  its  success, 
and  kept  perplexing  of  themselves  with  fears 
of  the  author's  topping  them  in  the  public 
eye  ;  and  wondering  more  and  more  who  he 
was.  At  the  end  the  curtain  fell  amid  such 
an  uproar  of  shouts  and  plaudits,  as  is  be- 
yond conceiving.  Every  man  seemed  to 
triumph  in  the  triumph  of  the  play ;  and 
every  woman  regarded  the  author's  success 
as  the  cause  of  true  love  and  honorable  de- 
votedness. 

William  Shakspeare,  thoroughly  exhausted 
by  his  wondrous  exertions,  was  receiving  the 
earnest  congratulations  of  his  friends  in  a 
chamber  of  the  playhouse,  when  the  manager 
rushed  towards  him,  and  pulling  him  by  the 
arm,  implored  him  to  come  with  him  on  the 
instant,  before  the  curtain,  for  the  audience 
were  making  of  such  a  terrible  din  and 
racket  he  expected  he  should  have  the  whole 
house  pulled  about  his  ears,  if  the  young 
player  did  not  speed  to  pacify  them.  At  this 
the  latter  made  what  haste  he  could — for,  in 
truth,  he  heard  such  a  disturbance  as  was 
enough  to  frighten  the  boldest  manager  that 
lived.  As  he  came  nearer  the  stage,  he  could, 
amid  the  universal  uproar,  plain  enough  dis- 
tinguish his  own  name  shouted  by  Imndreds 
of  voices.  This  was  gratifying  enough — 
but  as  soon  as  he  made  his  appearance,  the 
plaudits  and  shoutings  recommenced  with 
tenfold  fury.  The  ladies  and  gallants  stood 
up  in  the  rooms  ;  the  former  waving  of  their 
fair  white  handkerchiefs,  and  the  latter  clapp- 
ing of  their  hands  and  crying  out  all  manner 


of  praises.  As  for  the  groundlings  and  those 
in  the  scaffolds,  such  a  storm  of  shouts  and 
cries,  and  other  boisterous  noises,  came  from 
them  as  gave  to  no  one  the  chance  of  a  hear- 
ing. Some  few  appeared  aware  of  who  was 
the  author,  but  by  far  the  majority  were  as 
ignorant  of  it  as  the  play-writers.  The 
young  player  acknowledged  the  honor  that 
was  done  him  by  the  approval  of  tiie  audi- 
ence, with  a  graceful  courtesy  that  lacked 
not  a  suff.ciency  of  admirers  ;  and  so  he 
waited  to  know  their  will,  as  he  could  not 
at  first  make  out,  among  the  confusion  of 
sounds,  what  it  was  they  were  crying  for. 
At  last,  one  of  famous  strong  lungs  made 
himself  lieard  above  the  rest  by  putting  of  the 
question,  "  Who  wrote  this  play  ?"  Where- 
upon the  young  player  advanced  nearer  to 
the  audience,  which  they  taking  as  a  sign 
he  was  about  to  tell  them  what  they  so  much 
desired  to  know,  and  there  was  a  silence  in 
a  presently.  His  rivals  listened  with  all 
their  ears. 

'•  An'  it  please  you,  I  wrote  this  play," 
replied  William  Shakspeare.  In  an  instant 
the  storm  burst  out  more  furiously  than 
ever.  Hats  and  handkerchiefs  were  waved 
by  every  hand,  and  a  chorus  of  cheers  and 
praises  broke  forth  from  every  throat.  The 
chief  nobles  and  gallants  left  their  company 
and  got  upon  the  stage,  thronging  publicly 
around  the  young  player,  to  give  him  their 
countenance  and  commendation ;  and  his 
gentle  friend,  Edmund  Spenser,  who  ap- 
peared to  enjoy  his  success  as  though  it  had 
been  his  own,  made  known  to  him  as  many 
as  were  of  his  acquaintance.  VVilliam 
Shakspeare  felt  that  all  his  hardships  and 
sufferings  were  more  than  recompensed  by 
the  proud  triumph  of  that  hour.  As  for  his 
envious  rivals,  never  men  wore  such  black 
visages  as  did  they  at  hearing  the  young 
player  acknowledge  himself  the  author  of 
that  choice  performance ;  and  they  slunk 
out  of  the  playhouse  as  quickly  as  they 
could.  It  may  here  be  necessary  to  say  of 
them,  that  Greene  died  of  great  poverty, 
brought  on  by  his  own  notorious  ill  living, 
after  finishing  his  last  "  Repentance"  — 
wherein,  with  a  sufficiency  of  canting  la- 
mentation of  his  own  vileness,  he  stoutly 
abused  his  quondam  friends,  and  secretly 
slandered  his  fortunate  rival ;  that  his  asso- 
ciate, the  infamous  Cutting  Ball  —  whose 
sister  he  kept  as  his  leman — was  hanged  at 
Tyburn  for  his  many  crimes  and  wicked  dis- 
honest courses — a  fate  he  richly  merited ; 
and  his  chief  companion.  Kit  Marlowe,  in 
seeking  to  stab  a  dissolute  associate  with 
whom  he  had  quarrelled  at  tables  in  a  low 


350 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


tavern  at  Deptford,  was  miserably  slain  by  i 
him  on  the  s^pot,  with  a  stroke  of  a  datrger ' 
thrust  througii  his  eye.  Of  the  others,  j 
tliough  they  lived  and  produced  plays,  little  | 
is  known  to  their  credit,  either  of  them  or 
their  publications. 

But  the  success  of  William  SJiakspeare's 
admirable  performance  appeared  to  increase 
every  day  it  was  repeated  ;  crowds  came  to 
see  it,  who  went  away  so  charmed  that  it 
presently  became  the  talk  both  of  the  court 
and  of  the  citizens.  This  can  be  in  no  way 
surprising,  when  the  monstrous  difference 
is  considered,  that  lies  betwixt  the  graceful 
perfections  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  the 
poor  contemptible  bombast  of  the  .leronimos, 
the  Tamberlaine  the  Greats,  and  Orlando 
Furiosos,  which  had  previously  been  flivo- 
rites  of  the  public.  The  appearance  of  a  play 
in  every  way  so  amazingly  superior,  and  so 
filled  with  the  sweet  graces  of  natural  beauty, 
worked  a  prodigious  change  in  favor  of  the 
playhouse.  It  shortly  became  the  most  po- 
pular as  well  as  the  most  fashionable  enter- 
tainment of  the  time ;  and  the  players,  from 
being  looked  upon  as  little  better  than  vaga- 
bonds, were  now  resorted  to  by  the  best 
company  in  the  land.  The  throngs  which 
the  performance  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  brought 
to  the  Globe,  completely  obliterated  the  ma- 
nager's prejudices  against  the  author;  and 
when  in  consequence  of  the  favor  in  which 
that  production  was  viewed  in  high  places, 
it  was  ordered  that  the  company  should  be 
styled  the  Queen's  Players,  old  Burbage,  to 
show  his  gratitude  to  the  one  who  had  been 
of  such  important  service,  made  him  a 
shareholder  in  the  property  of  the  company. 
By  this  measure  the  young  player  found 
himself  in  the  possession  of  a  fair  provision, 
and  saw  that  nought  was  wanting  but  pro- 
per exertion  on  his  part  to  lead  him  to  for- 
tune and  greatness. 

As  soon  as  his  circumstances  allowed,  he 
resolved  on  j)aying  a  visit  to  his  native 
Stratford,  fondly  longing  to  see  his  dear 
children,  and  to  make  such  arrangements 
for  his  parents,  as  would  place  them  beyond 
the  reach  of  those  bitter  necessities  they  had 
had  such  prolonged  experience  of ;  and  tak- 
ing John  a  Combe  to  be  of  his  company,  they 
started  on  their  journey.  The  day  before 
their  departure  from  London,  the  latter  in 
passing  along  one  of  tlie  streets  with  his 
friend,  was  attracted  by  the  ap])earance  of  a 
ragged  filthy-looking  woman,  in  a  state  of 
evident,  drunkenness,  dragged  along  by  a 
party  of  the  city  watch,  who  loaded  her  with 
such  abuse,  as  if  sbo  had  been  the  mo.st  no- 
torious vile  creature  that  lived,  which,  in 


honest  truth,  she  went  nigh  to  be.  Master 
Combe  suddenly  left  his  companion,  and 
went  close  up  to  her,  regarding  her  with  a 
searching  scrutiny  ;  but  directly  she  cast 
eyes  on  him  she  screamed  fearfully,  and 
tried  to  hide  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  'Tis  she  !"  exclaimed  her  former  lover, 
and  left  her,  with  an  aspect  of  mingled 
horror  and  disgust.  This  woman  was  the 
pretended  Lady  Arabella  Comfit,  the  leman 
of  JNlaster  Buzzard,  who  was  so  conspicu- 
ous an  agent  in  the  vile  attempt  upon  the 
foundling ;  and  having  gone  through  all 
the  grades  of  infamy,  was  now  in  the  hands 
of  justice,  about  to  answer  for  a  whole  ca- 
talogue of  her  wicked  base  offences. 

William  Shakspeare  travelled  very  dif- 
ferently at  this  time  from  the  manner  in 
which  he  made  his  journey  to  London,  for 
he  rode  a  good  horse,  as  did  also  his  com- 
panion, whom  he  amused  famously  on  the 
road  by  recounting  his  adventures  and  mis- 
haps in  his  former  travels.  The  country 
now  was  in  no  way  like  what  it  was.  The 
poor  Queen  of  Scots  had  long  ceased  to  be 
made  an  engine  for  harassing  the  people 
with  vain  alarms  ;  and  wherever  the  travel- 
lers went,  the  inhabitants  seemed  mad  with 
the  recent  triumph  of  England  over  the 
Spanish  Armada.  Bonfires  were  lit  in  every 
town,  and  divers  of  the  worthy  country 
people,  if  they  might  have  had  their  will, 
would  have  made  logs  of  such  '•  wretched 
villainous  papists"  as  were  nighest  at  hand. 
Little  of  note  occurred  on  the  journey.  The 
young  player  passed  but  one  night  at  Ox- 
ford ;  but  doubtless  that  visit  was  infinitely 
to  his  contentation.  They  were  nearing 
their  destination,  when  they  approached  a 
cavalcade  of  horsemen,  who  seemed  going 
the  same  road.  Among  them  William 
Shakspeare  quickly  recognized  his  former 
venerable  benevolent  patron,  Sir  Manna- 
duke  de  Largesse,  and  putting  spurs  to  his 
steed  he  was  soon  by  his  side. 

Great  was  the  gratification  on  both  sides 
at  this  meeting  ;  the  old  knight  acquainting 
his  young  companion,  that  after  arming  his 
vassals,  and  marching  at  their  head  to  help 
guard  the  coast  during  the  threatened  inva- 
sion, he  had  disbanded  them,  and  having 
then  proceeded  to  court  to  attend  upon  her 
Highness,  he  was  returning  home,  first  in- 
tending to  call  in  his  way  on  an  old  ac- 
quaintance and  brother-in-arms,  wlio  was 
about  giving  a  grand  tournament. 

"  Truly  I  should  be  glad  to  see  it,"  re- 
plied liio  other. 

"  Well,  wend  with  me  to  my  Lord  de  la 
Pole's,  and  you  shall  have  as  good  a  sight  of 


THE  YOUTH  OP  SHAKSPEARE. 


261 


it  as  any,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke  ;  "  besides 
which  you  shall  behold  his  fair  daugliter,  the 
Lady  Mabel,  whose  history  is  so  marvellous 
strange." 

"  De  la  Pole  ! — Mabel  !"  exclaimed  Wil- 
liam Shakspearo,  in  exceeding  astonish- 
ment. "  Surely  that  cannot  be  the  exquisite 
sweet  creature  brought  up  as  a  foundling  by 
Dame  Lucy." 

"  The  same,  Master  Shakspeare,  the 
same,  o'  my  life  !  I  know  the  whole  story," 
answered  the  old  knight. 

"  Never  heard  I  anything  so  wondrous," 
said  the  young  player.  "  As  I  live,  Sir 
Marmaduke,  that  very  Mabel  travelled  with 
me,  disguised  in  male  apparel,  from  close 
upon  Stratford  to  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Lord  Urban's  mansion.  Despite  her  gar- 
ments, I  recognized  her  ere  I  had  been  long 
in  her  company  ;  but  fancying  she  might 
feel  some  disquietude  if  she  thought  I  knew 
who  she  was,  I  treated  her  for  wliat  she  ap- 
peared to  be.  She  gave  me  to  understand 
she  fled  from  some  villainous  intentions  : 
and  believing,  when  my  Lord  de  la  Pole 
benevolently  took  charge  of  her,  taking  her 
to  b'j  what  she  represented,  that  there  was 
no  likelihood  of  her  being  so  safely  disposed 
of  elsewhere,  I  took  my  leave  of  her  ;  but  I 
have  often  thought  of  the  gentle,  graceful 
creature  since  then,  and  this  present  moment 
am  journeying  to  my  lord's  mansion  to  make 
inquiries  concerning  of  her  fortunes." 

At  this  Sir  Marmaduke  marvelled  greatly, 
and  not  without  a  famous  admiration  of  the 
honorableness  of  his  young  friend's  deli- 
cate behavior  to  the  distressed  damsel. 
After  some  further  talk  on  the  subject,  he 
spoke  of  his  nephews  :  Sir  Pteginald  had 
lately  married ;  and  Sir  Valentine,  after 
distinguished  himself  very  notably,  had  pro- 
mised in  a  few  months  to  visit  his  kinsman. 

"  He  might  have  had  the  most  covetable 
matches  in  the  kingdom,"  added  the  old 
knight ;  "  but  he  seemeth  in  no  way  in- 
clined to  marry.  Methinks  the  death  of  his 
noble  friend,  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  hath  so 
grieved  him,  he  cannot  be  got  to  care  to 
love  any  other  person." 

"  Doth  he  know  of  this  change  in  the 
foundling's  fortunes  ?"  inquired  the  young 
player. 

"  Not  a  word,"  replied  the  knight ;  "  for  I 
received  not  advice  of  it  myself  till  I  was  on 
the  point  of  starting  from  London — he  being 
then  with  the  court  at  Greenwich  ;  and  from 
what  I  have  learned — my  intelligence  coming 
from  no  other  than  the  happy  father — that 
though  the  earl  hath  sent,  far  and  near,  in- 
vitations to  his  entertainment,  he  doth  not 


intend  making  any  acquainted  with  the 
proper  cause  of  it,  till  the  whole  company 
are  assembled." 

"  I  have  had  excellent  evidence  for  know- 
ing Sir  Valentine  loved  the  Lady  Mabel," 
observed  William  Shakspeare,  "  and  I  doubt 
not  at  all  his  refusals  of  marriage  were  cre- 
ated from  his  aifection  being  engrossed  by 
the  humble  beauty  at  Charlcote  whom  he 
must  long  have  lost  sight  of." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  the  case  with  all  my 
heart !"  exclaimed  his  companion  earnestly, 
"  for  doubt  I  not — to  say  nought  of  his  own 
merit,  which  methinks  should  make  its  way 
anywhere — my  old  friendship  with  the  earl 
will  give  no  little  help  to  my  nephew's 
successful  wooing  of  his  daughter :  and  I 
should  be  right  glad  to  see  him  happy,  for 
he  hath  seemed  in  very  woful  case  a  long 
time  past." 

"  Think  you  he  will  be  at  the  tournament  ?" 
inquired  the  other. 

"  Surely,  he  cannot  fail,"  replied  Sir  Mar- 
maduke. 'He  taketh  great  delight  in  such 
things  ;  and  it  is  scarce  possible  he  should 
not  have  intelligence  of  it.  Nevertheless,  if 
I  find  him  not  amongst  the  company,  I  will 
use  all  despatch  in  making  him  acquainted 
with  whatsoever  is  most  desirous  he  should 
know."  Here  the  conversation  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  approach  of  Master  Peregrine 
and  Sir  Johan,  to  whom  John  a  Combe,  in 
the  meanwhile,  had  been  relating  his  young 
friend's  notable  success. 

"This  Cometh  entirely  of  those  proper 
studies  we  pursued  together,"  gravely  ob- 
served the  chaplain,  after  a  sutficiency  of 
congratulation  : — "  be  assured,  young  sir, 
there  is  nought  so  like  to  lead  to  greatness 
as  deep  study  of  the  classic  writings  of  the 
ancient  Greeks  and  Romans." 

"  Ancient  pudding  !"  exclaimed  the  anti- 
quary, in  a  monstrous  indignation.  "  Dost 
claim  my  admirable  rare  scholar  of  me  on 
such  weak  pretences?  Hast  forgot  the 
many  hours  I  have  passed  in  Sir  Marma- 
duke's  library  teaching  of  this  my  pupil  ? 
Ancient  Greeks  !  Ancient  fig's  ends  !  I 
tell  thee  all  his  fame  proceeded  from  my  ex- 
treme pains-taking  he  should  be  familiar 
with  every  one  of  those  sweet  repositories 
of  delectable  knowledge,  the  old  ballads." 

"  Old  fiddlesticks  !"  retorted  Sir  Johan, 
less  inclined  now  than  ever  to  lose  the  repu- 
tation of  having  instructed  so  worthy  a 
scholar ;  and  there  was  like  to  be  again  very 
desperate  war  between  them  on  this  point, 
had  not  the  young  player  made  such  ac- 
knowledgments as  went  far  towards  the 
satisfying  of  both  parties.     For  all  which, 


252 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


to  the  clay  of  their  deaths,  each  considered 
Master  Shakspeare's  infinite  genius  came 
exclusively  of  iiis  teaching. 

Before  the  latter  could  get  sight  of  the 
Lady  Mabel,  she  and  her  noble  parents  had 
been  informed  of  his  arrival  by  Sir  Marma- 
duke,  who  took  especial  care  aught  ho  knew 
to  his  advantage  sliould  have  a  faitlil'ul  in- 
telligencer ;  and  there  could  scarce  be  any 
persons  who  could  so  perfectly  appreciate 
the  conduct  of  his  young  friend  as  tliose  to 
whom  he  spoke.  The  youthful  student  the 
poor  foundling  had  beheld  with  such  interest 
asleep  under  the  tree,  and  who  had  rescued  her 
so  gallantly  from  the  power  of  the  licentious 
lord  and  his  villainous  assistants,  and  had 
moreover  behaved  so  brotherly  during  her 
painful  travelling  after  her  escape  from 
Charlcote,  was  sure  to  be  received  by  the 
high-born  lady,  with  sincere  welcome  and 
gratitude.  Indeed,  the  earl  and  the  count- 
ess did  vie  with  her  how  they  could  best 
show  their  respect  to  one  to  whom  they 
considered  themselves  so  deeply  indebted  ; 
but  her  particular  delight  seemed  to  be  to 
have  him  with  her  on  every  occasion,  to 
hear  him  discourse,  which  on  all  matters  he 
could  right  eloquently,  but  if  there  was  one 
subject  she  preferred  to  others,  doubt  not  it 
was  his  former  companion  and  excellent  gal- 
T^nt  friend,  Sir  Valentine. 

In  honest  truth,  her  thoughts  had  been 
in  that  channel  far  more  than  ever, 
since  the  discovery  of  her  parentage  ;  and, 
with  a  woman's  gratitude,  she  longed  for 
nothing  so  much  as  some  opportunity  to  tes- 
tify to  the  generous-hearted  gentleman  who 
would  have  taken  her  to  wife  though  she 
was  of  such  humble  poor  condition,  that  she 
lacked  not  a  proper  estimation  of  his  true 
affection.  Wliilst  preparations  were  going 
on  for  a  grand  chivalrous  entertainment 
which  the  earl  had  decided  on  giving  for 
purposes  of  his  own,  a  little  plot  was  got  up 
by  him  and  others — of  whom  was  William 
Shakspeare — to  assist  in  carrying  it  on  to 
the  conclusion  all  desired.  On  the  day  ap- 
pointed, the  principal  nobles  and  gallants  in 
the  land  came  thronging  to  the  lists,  and  a 
crowd  of  curious  sjjectators,  from  far  and 
near,  assembled  in  the  great  park,  to  sec  them 
engage.  Proper  buildings  had  been  there 
erected  ;  and  in  a  commanding  situation  the 
Countess  and  her  daughter  sat  surrounded 
by  the  chief  nobility  of  the  country,  to  wit- 
ness the  proceedings.  Among  the  kniglits 
present  the  Lady  Mabel  looked  in  vain  for  the 
one  she  most  desired  to  see.  She  heard  their 
titles,  she  beiicld  their  cognizances,  but  all 
were  strange  to  her  ;  and  she  looked  on  with 


a  careless  eye,  and  took  no  sort  of  interest  in 
the  scene.  Her  attention  was  now  almost 
entirely  devoted  to  Master  Shakspeare,  whom 
she  had  made  sit  close  behind  her.  All  at 
once  a  great  shouting  arose  from  the  crov/d, 
which  made  lier  look  again  upon  the  con- 
tending knights,  and  then  she  beheld  one 
whom  she  had  not  seen  before,  and  whose 
title  she  liad  not  heard.  He  had  entered  tlie 
barriers  when  she  was  most  deeply  engaged 
in  conversing  with  the  young  player,  having 
arrived  late.  He  was  clothed  in  a  complete 
suit  of  black  armor,  with  his  visor  down. 
Noting  that  this  knight  overthrew  all  who 
opposed  him,  she  asked  who  he  was  ;  there- 
upon Master  Shakspeare  gave  her  a  very 
moving  history  of  him,  stating  that  he  was 
called  the  black  knight,  and  was  an  exceed- 
ing mysterious  personage,  of  whom  none 
knew  anything,  whereof  the  consequence 
^vas  no  person  was  so  much  talked  of. 
Among  other  things,  he  said  he  had  heard 
his  aspect  was  so  marvellously  ill-favored 
that  he  rarely  made  it  visible. 

Nevertheless,   of  that   press   of  chivalry 
none  showed  such  skill  as  the  Black  Knight 
— ill  favored  as  he  might  be — and  he  was 
publicly  declared  to  be  the  chiefest  of  all 
for  knightly  accomplishments.     When  the 
tourney  was  over,  the  Lady  INIabel  left  her 
seat,   exceedingly  dull   at   heart,  her  lover 
j  had  not  fulfilled  her  expectations  by  being 
\  one  of  the  actors  in  the  scene  she  had  just 
I  witnessed.     She  was  in  one  of  the  principal 
chambers  in  the  mansion,  in  the  midst  of  a 
j  most  courtly  company,  in   her   attire  rival- 
I  ling  the  splendor  of  the  noblest  dame  pre- 
j  sent,  and  in  her  beauty  far  surpassing  the 
loveliest.      The    young  player  was  beside 
I  her,  seeming  to  be  verj-  intent  on  affording 
I  her  some  sort  of  amusement,  by  telling  her 
strange  tales  of  the  Black  Knight  in  which 
I  it  v.'as  difficult  to  say  whether  tlie  horrible 
j  or  the  ludicrous  most  predominated.  Whilst 
he  kept  her  attention  engaged,  there    ap- 
i  proached  towards  them  the  very  object  of 
their  conversation,  with  his  vizor  up,  accom- 
panied by  the  Earl  and  Sir  Marmaduke.    He 
stopped  suddenly  as  he  caught  sight  of  her, 
and  gazed  in  rapt  astonishment  on  her  e.x- 
quisite  fair  countenance  and  majestic  figure. 
"  Sir  Knight,"  said  the  Earl,  after  he  had 
allowed  the  other,  as  he  thought,  to  marvel 
to  an  absolute  sufficiency, '"  this  is  my  daugh- 
ter of  whom  I  spoke.     It  grieveth  me  to  the 
heart  I  cannot,  after  all  I  have  said,  get  you 
to  entertain  the  idea  of  becoming  my  son-in- 
law." 

"  Mabel !"    rapturously    exclaimed    tlie 
Black    Knight,  and    so   audibly,  the  lady 


THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


263 


turned  her  gaze  upon  him  on  the  instant. 
The  voice  stirred  her  deepest  affections  ; 
and  one  glance  sufficed  to  call  them  into 
fullest  action.  The  knight  was  Sir  Valen- 
tine, who  liad  worn  black  armor  since  the 
death  of  his  lamented  and  valiant  friend  Sir 
Philip  Sydney.  All  traces  of  the  Earl's  suf- 
fering had  vanished,  under  the  gladdening 
influence  of  those  excellent  ministers  of 
good,  whom  he  had  treated  with  such  mon- 
strous injustice;  and  their  happiness  was 
now  his  sole  care.  He  took  care  to  make 
public  the  wrong  he  had  done,  that  his  story 
might  be  a  lesson  unto  all  such  mere  slaves 
of  reputation,  and  their  merit  might  he  ex- 
amples to  every  honest  wife  and  atfectionate 
daughter,  as  long  as  the  work!  lasted.  His 
efforts  were  crowned  with  a  deserved  suc- 
cess. The  Countess,  vAw  was  hailed  by 
her  friends  as  one  risen  from  the  grave,  was 
in  such  content  as  she  had  never  till  then 
had  knowledge  of;  and  her  daughter,  in  the 
fond  devotion  of  Sir  Valentine,  enjoyed  such 
extreme  happiness,  as  was  the  fittest  recom- 
pence  for  iier  many  painful  troubles.  Of 
the  spectators,  not  one  so  mucli  enjoyed  the 
spectacle  of  her  felicity,  as  he  whose  boyish 
dreams  she  liad  made  so  radiant  with  her 
early  beauty.  H?  had  entered  heart  and 
s  lui'into  the  little  plot  that  liad  been  design- 
ed for  the  purpose  of  bringing  the  lovers  to- 
gether; and  witnessed  the  mutual  delicious 
pleasure  of  their  recognition,  with  a  heart  as 
pregnant  with  true  enjoyment  as  had  eitlicr. 
Having  promised  every  one  of  that  now 
happy  family,  to  their  united  earnest  pressing, 
he  would  be  present  at  the  nuptials  of  Sir 
Valentine  and  Lady  Mabel,  he  once  more 
pursued  his  journey,  accompanied  by  tiic 
same  party  with  wliom  he  had  visited  the 
Earl's  mansion.  As  he  drew  nigh  the  fami- 
liar places  bordering  on  Stratford,  every  spot 
called  up  a  thousand  delightful  associations. 
Far  different  were  his  feelings  at  approach- 
ing his  native  town,  to  what  tliey  had  been 
when  he  last  left  it.  Then,  desperate  unhap- 
piness  had  banished  liim,  friendless  and  ob- 
scure— but  now,  he  returned  full  of  pleasure 
in  the  present,  and  hope  in  the  future,  lack- 
ing neither  store  of  friends,  nor  sufficiency  of 
reputation  ;  and  having  no  sort  of  anxieties, 
save  for  those  from  whom  he  had  been  so 
long  parted.  Whilst  his  mind  was  filled 
with  sweet  loving  thoughts  of  his  dear  chil- 
dren and  parents,  kindred  and  friends,  he  was 
accosted  by  a  voice  he  could  not  fail  of  re- 
cognizing in  a  moment. 

"  Said  I  not  so,  my  lambkin  ?"  exclaimed 
Nurse  Cicely,  seeming  to  be  overjoyed  at 
beholding    her  foster-chiid  returning  to  his 


native  town  in  so  gallant  a  fashion.  She 
stood  in  the  very  same  spot  where  he  had 
last  seen  her  and  he  now  remembered  the 
fair  hopes  she  had  given  him  when  he  was 
in  so  despairing  a  humor.  He  gladly  stop- 
ped and  greeted  the  old  affectionate  creature 
in  his  kindest  manner,  and  bid  her  bo  of  good 
heart,  for  he  would  visit  lier  anon,  which  put 
her  in  such  garrulous  contentation,she  went 
off  to  her  gossips,  and  would  talk  of  nothing 
else.  Everything  seemed  just  as  he  had  left 
it,  and  his  old  acquaintances  appeared  in  no 
way  altered, — save  only  Skinny  Dickon, 
who  had  grown  to  be  as  stout  a  man  as  any 
in  the  town.  As  he  rode  by,  there  stood 
the  Widow  Pippins,  leaning  over  the  rail  in 
her  gallery,  laughing  with  as  notable  a 
heartiness  as  ever,  at  no  other  than  that  still 
most  miserable  of  constables,  Oliver  Dumps, 
upon  whom  it  looked  monstrous  like  as  if 
slie  had  been  playing  some  of  her  jests. — 
There  sat  the  two  merry  wives.  Mistress 
Dowlas  and  Mistress  Malmsey,  gossipping 
at  the  latter's  casement,  whilst  the  worthy 
aldermen,  their  husbands,  were  standing  at 
their  several  doors,  shouting  little  matters  of 
news  across  the  street ;  there  was  Mother 
Flytrap  and  Dame  Lambswool,  Maud  and 
her  partner  Humphrey,  gaping  with  open 
mouths  at  the  approaching  cavalcade  till  the 
latter,  recognizing  his  old  master's  son, 
threw  up  his  cap  in  the  air,  and  shouted  his 
congratulations  in  so  hearty  a  manner,  the 
whole  town  were  soon  made  acquainted 
with  their  visitor.  All  this  was  exquisite 
to  William  Shakspeare ;  but  wlien,  on  en- 
tering Henly  Street,  he  beheld  his  honest 
old  father  in  his  homely  jerkin,  standing  at 
tlio  door  looking  to  see  what  made  that  sud- 
den outcry,  his  feelings  became  so  powerful, 
he  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  rode  up  to  the 
door  as  rapidly  as  he  could  ;  but  the  joyful 
cry  to  his  dame  of  John  Shakspeare,  as  he 
beheld  his  son,  brought  out  the  fond  mother 
in  a  marvellous  haste,  and  the  young  player 
was  scarce  free  of  his  saddle  when  he  found 
her  loving  arms  around  his  neck.  A  few 
minutes  after,  his  happiness  was  completed 
by  holding  in  his  tender  embraces  first  one 
and  then  the  other  of  his  dear  children  ;  and 
this  he  did  in  such  a  manner  as  seemed  to 
show  he  knew  not  which  of  the  three  he 
ought  to  love  the  most. 

"  Ah  !"  exclaimed  the  youthful  father,  in 
an  impassioned  burst  of  tenderness,  as  he 
pressed  them  in  his  fond  embrace, — the 
others,  with  delighted  aspects,  noting  his 
famous  enjoyment,  "  Such  sweet  happiness 
never  tasted  1  all  my  days  !  Who  would 
not  toil — who  would  not  suffer — who  would 


264  THE  YOUTH  OF  SHAI{:SPEARE. 

not  school  his  affections  unto  virtuous  hon- 1  Truly,  metliinks  such  glad  occasions  prove, 
est  purposes  through  the  bitterest  pangs  hu-  with  the  choicest  of  argument,  all  else  but 
manity  hath  knowledge  of,  to  crown  his  la-  goodness  is  utter  folly,  and  as  absolute  des- 
bor  with  pleasure  of  so  sterling  a  sort  ? —  '  perate  ignorance  as  ever  existed." 


HERE    ENDETH    THE    STORY    OF 

THE    YOUTH    OF    SHAKSPEARE. 


Note. — The  courteous  reader,  with  a  very  bounteous  kmdness,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped,  not 
without  a  fair  entertainment,  hath  thus  far  proceeded  with  the  moving  history  of  this  truly  glo- 
rious character  ;  yet  if  he  loveth  the  subject  as  it  deserves  he  should,  he  ought  in  no  manner  to 
be  content  here  to  stop  ;  but  proceed  with  a  proper  diligence  to  the  perusal  of  what  is  set  down 
concerning  of  his  after  brilHant  career,  and  likewise  of  those  master  spirits  of  the  age  by  whom 
he  got  to  be  surrounded,  which,  with  other  matters  of  a  like  enticing  sort,  to  wit,  most  stirring 
adventures — most  dehcate  love-scenes — most  choice  humors  and  exquisite  witty  jests,  he  may 
count  on  having  famous  store  of  (else  sundry  notable  critics  err  hugely)  in  the  company  of 
"  Shakspeare  and  his  Friends." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERK^ELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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